


Someplace Other Than Home

by Nelsynoo



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alistair Needs a Hug, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bron does not like hugs, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Road Trips, Slow Burn, They figure it out anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2018-09-08 15:21:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 111,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8850109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nelsynoo/pseuds/Nelsynoo
Summary: Having been exiled from Ferelden at the Landsmeet, Alistair has spent 10 years doing odd mercenary jobs across the Free Marches and drinking excessively. Now an Inquisition agent has found him and is requesting his assistance in finding the Grey Wardens. While working for the Inquisition, Alistair finds new purpose and forges new friendships. This story features occasional, canon-typical violence and a slow burn romantic relationship leading to eventual smuttiness.





	1. Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> I loved all the little cameos in Inquisition but was a little disappointed that there was no mention of what happens to Alistair if you exile him at the Landsmeet and he becomes a drunk in Kirkwall. So this story is my attempt to rectify that oversight and give exile-Alistair a satisfying story arc.
> 
> The story focuses on Alistair and an OC of mine but will eventually feature a lot of the cast from DA:I.

A few heads turn when she enters the tavern, casting wary glances her way before returning their attention to their drinks. The tavern is busier than she had expected for such a remote location. Perhaps it is the rain, she muses, driving travellers from the road in search of shelter and a warming meal. It doesn’t matter, of course, Bron’s always been rather fond of crowds; they make it easier to pass unnoticed.

She stomps her boots against the flagstones to kick off the mud clinging stubbornly to the soles and gives her sodden cloak a shake before stepping toward the bar with long, confident strides.

Leaning against the rough, pocked surface of the bar, she gestures toward the bar-maid for a drink before taking a careful survey of the room. A group of miners crowd a central table, loudly discussing their displeasure with their working conditions. There’s a man by the door shoveling food into his mouth with unparalleled gusto. His back is bent, likely from a heavy pack, and he has the twitchy disposition of someone who is travelling according to a strict schedule. A merchant then, most likely, with a delivery deadline to meet.

An elderly man sitting near the fire at the far end of the room gives her a slight nod and cracks a smile, an unexpected gesture of warmth in this dank corner of Ferelden, and Bron finds herself reciprocating with her own, far more cautious, smile. It’s been a long time since she left Haven, nearly a month on the road on her own, and though she normally enjoys solitude, she finds this little gesture of camaraderie somewhat uplifting.

Further down the bar sits a young man, broad and firm, with a mop of sandy hair obscuring his eyes. She’s immediately struck with recognition, though she’s never seen the man before; Leliana’s mission briefing had been thorough and her description of the target detailed. He’s not as tall as Bron had expected but then it’s hard to tell from the way he curls around his drink as if protecting it from prying eyes.

Bron watches him a moment, eyes peering over the rim of her flagon as she pretends to be preoccupied with her beer. He drinks slowly, thoughtfully, his tankard cradled gently between large, scarred hands. He smiles at the bar-maid when she refills his drink and though his expression is guarded, there’s genuine warmth there, and the bar-maid smiles back at him broadly. Her smile breaks into a hearty bark of laughter for a fleeting moment – he must have told a joke – before she turns her attention toward one of the other patrons and leaves him to drink in peace once more.

As she watches him, posture hunched and motions slow, Bron find that she’s a little… disappointed. There are many who consider this man a hero; in a different life he may have been a King. But even with his impressive physical presence, there’s a _smallness_ to him that Bron did not expect. He sits as if trying to take up as little space as possible, as if his very existence is an unwanted imposition on the world.

She finishes her drink quickly, knocking it back in a few long gulps. It tastes vile, warm and oddly papery, but then she’s been drinking shit beer for several weeks now and she’s almost got used to it.

Pushing back from the bar, she takes one last survey of the room before moving toward the stairs that lead to the guest rooms upstairs. No one takes any notice of her as she winds through the higgledy-piggledy scattering of chairs and tables, just one more cloaked traveller in need of a place to rest and dry off.

He’ll follow soon, when he’s had his full of beer and sleep compels him to his room, and then her mission begins in earnest.

* * *

 

Alistair is _tired_.

His latest job had not gone as smoothly as planned and his whole body now heaves with the consequences. It was supposed to be easy – just accompany the merchant and his merchandise to the port until they were met by the buyer – but then the buyer had refused to pay the promised price and then tried to claim the merchandise by force and, well, Alistair can’t remember the last time things were easy. At least he’d been paid, and paid well.

Of course the pay _had_ to be good to get him to Fereldan. As much as he loved his homeland – and he _did_ love Fereldan, with her perpetually overcast skies and pleasantly musty aroma – Anora had been very clear what would happen to him should he return home, and he preferred to keep his head where it was, thank you very much. He’d made the occasional, fleeting visit during his ten years of exile, but only when the pay had been too good to refuse or the client too desperate to disappoint.

It was unlikely that anyone would recognise him anyway. There were so few who had known his face even before he’d left. And what did the merchants and dock workers of Northern Fereldan care about the political wranglings of the nobility or the misfortune of a royal bastard?

Still – he wanted to get back across the Waking Sea as soon as possible and would have booked passage immediately had the fighting between the mages and Templars not left so many of the Free Marches’ city ports in disarray.

With a sound that is partially a sigh but mostly a groan, Alistair takes a quick swig of the last dregs of his beer and gives the bar-maid one final wave before leaving the bar and heading upstairs to the guest quarters.

The floorboards creak in protest as he walks down the corridor toward his room and he finds himself sympathizing with their plight. Every joint in his body is creaking, every muscle numb, and even though he had the sense to change out of his splint-mail before settling at the bar, he can feel the phantom weight of his armour resting heavily on his shoulders.

Blackness greets him when he enters the room and Alistair’s not sure whether it’s worth trying to light a candle and change from his leathers into a night-shirt or whether he should just collapse onto the mattress and call it a night. Deciding that the latter is by far the easiest course of action, he’s only taken a few steps into the room when he abruptly stills, struck with a sudden yet unmistakable feeling of _wrongness_.

Alistair is not alone.

He moves his hand to the small dagger hanging from his belt and wonders how many steps it would take for him to reach his long-sword leaning against the foot of the bed. In the cramped confines of his room, the dagger is probably the more useful weapon but Alistair has always been more skilled at the long-sword and he’s annoyed that it’s not close at hand now that he wants it.

“Now, now,” comes a voice from the darkness, surprisingly friendly and maybe even a little… amused? “The dagger’s really not necessary.”

A shape shifts in the darkness and then suddenly there’s a pop of light as the candle on the bedside table is lit. The little candle cannot fully banish the room’s darkness but in its meek, orange glow he can just about make out the blurry outline of his intruder’s form.

“Well, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll hold onto it for a while,” he says, voice light but hopefully with enough sharpness to keep her on her guard. “Funnily enough, I tend not to trust the words of those who have broken into my room late at night.” He pulls the dagger from its scabbard, holds it at his side to avoid looking too threatening. There’s no need to become overtly aggressive too soon but he wants to be prepared just in case.

“Suit yourself,” she replies with a shrug, and even though the room is still dark, Alistair can make out a small smile on her face and he’s a little annoyed that she seems so thoroughly at ease. 

She carries the small candle across the room and uses it to methodically light the other candles dotted atop the furniture. With the room now bathed in light she finally comes into sharp focus and she’s… well… she looks thoroughly harmless. She’s small and slight, with long, black hair pulled into a tight braid down her back. Her leathers are simple but finely-made, clearly tailored specifically for her, and if she’s carrying a weapon, it is masterfully concealed.

Once she’s lit the last candle she turns to face him, smiling in a way that is probably meant to be disarming but is a little too forced to be genuinely friendly.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Alistair Theirin,” she says, head nodding in greeting “you have been very difficult to track down”

It’s not the introduction he was expecting, although to be honest he wasn’t really expecting _any_ introduction. Assassins tended to forego introductions and get straight down to the stabbing. For a moment he just stares at her, baffled as to her identity, mildly alarmed that she seems to know his, and if she feels uncomfortable under his scrutiny, she hides it well. 

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” he asks at last, hoping that some straightforward questions will elicit straightforward answers.

“My name is Bron,” she replies, still as cordial as before, “I was sent here by a friend of yours”

“I don’t have any friends.”

“Well clearly _someone_ likes you well enough to send me to track you down. Maker knows I didn’t come to the arse-end of nowhere by my own volition”

He pauses for a moment in thought. “Arl Teagan sent you.” It’s as good a guess as any.

Teagan had tried to track him down a number of times during his exile, had even managed to find him once. Alistair had told him in no uncertain terms that he never wanted to see him again – Fereldan was not his home anymore, and Teagan was no longer his family – but still, the Arl was persistent, and every few months he would hear that Teagan’s men were asking after him.

Her face pinches, brows slanted in consternation as if he’s just said something phenomenally stupid. It’s an expression that Alistair has grown very accustomed to over the years.

“Leliana sent me.”

Now _that’s_ unexpected.

“Leliana?”

He had heard no word of her since the Landsmeet. And he can’t for the life of him imagine what she could possibly want with him now.

“Yes. She wants me to bring you back to Haven. She has… _important things_ she wishes to discuss with you.”

“Well then I’m afraid she’s going to be sorely disappointed; I’m not going anywhere.”

Bron narrows her eyes, as if facing the protestations of a particularly cantankerous child.

“Why not?” she asks, some of the civility slipping from her tone to make room for sharp irritation, “Leliana, Left Hand of the Divine and founder of the Inquisition, has requested an audience with you and you’d rather… languish here in the armpit of Thedas? Aren’t you even a _little_ bit curious to know what she wants with you?”

The Inquisition? _That’s_ what this is about? He’s heard of them of course – seen their proclamations on Chantry doors across the Free Marches – but their influence is minimal, especially outside of Fereldan. What could the Inquisition possibly want with a disgraced former Warden?

He clucks his tongue against his teeth as he shakes his head. “No, actually, not in the least bit curious.”

It’s a lie, of course, he _is_ curious. But he’d wanted to come and go from Fereldan while attracting as little attention as possible, and sauntering into Inquisition headquarters to meet with a senior member of the Chantry didn’t seem like a particularly good way to keep a low profile.

She opens her mouth to protest but he waves her away with a brusque swipe of his hand. “Look,” he starts, stern and decided, “I’ve heard what the Inquisition are doing and I support anyone who’s trying to put an end to this war between the mages and Templars. But, honestly, I don’t want any part of it."

“The Inquisition needs your help and you’re just going to… _walk away_?!” she snaps, more than a little disdain colouring her words. He gets the distinct impression that he’s a great disappointment to her but is struggling to find the ability to care.

“I tried playing the hero before,” he snaps back, “and it didn’t work out too great for me. So excuse me if I’m going to give it a pass this time.”

He re-sheathes his dagger and steps toward the door. He’s heard enough already; it’s time for him to show her out and get some bloody sleep.

“What if I told you it concerns the Grey Wardens?”

He stops, hand poised just above the doorknob.

It doesn’t change anything, _it doesn’t_. He’s not a warden any more; he left behind that title the day that Loghain took the joining. But he can’t help but wonder what exactly she knows.

“What about the wardens?”

“They’ve gone missing – we’re hoping you can help us find them.”

He shrugs with forced nonchalance. “I don’t care.”

“I find that hard to believe – you _are_ a warden.”

“I _was_ a warden; I left.”

“I got the impression that one does not simply… _leave_ the wardens.”

“What can I say? I’m a special snowflake.”

She arches one eyebrow sharply and he can tell that his flippancy annoys her. He gives her a shit-eating grin, just to really piss her off.

He expects her to snap at him again. Instead he’s a little unnerved when her calm façade from earlier slips back into place. When she holds his gaze, there’s a steely determination in her eyes that suggests she’s used to getting her own way.

“Look – you can play the part of the angry, embittered warden-in-exile if you want, and carry on sitting in shitty taverns, drinking shitty beer between shitty mercenary jobs. Or you can come with me, and help the Inquisition find the wardens. Because I _know_ you care, no matter how much you protest to the contrary, so you might as well drop the bullshit and come with me back to Leliana.”

He smiles, no longer in mockery, but with genuine mirth. There’s something reassuringly honest about her little outburst.

“And what makes you so certain that I still care about the wardens?”

She walks to the long, narrow desk that lines the back wall of the room and picks up a handful of papers, holding the documents up for him to see. There are maps, marred with his scrawling script, and notes written on loose scraps, rumours hastily recorded before he had the chance to forget them.

“You’ve been tracking the wardens, trying to record their movements, find out what they’re up to. Why would you do all this if you didn’t care?”

He steps forward quickly, takes the papers from her hands and starts to shuffle them with the papers still on the desk.

“You know it’s rude to go through people’s things.”

“It’s also rude to break into someone’s room late at night but…” her smile stretches wide and wicked as she shrugs, “here I am anyway.”

His laugh comes unexpectedly, loud and sharp. But then there’s something about her glib honesty and the sheer ridiculousness of the situation that seems inexplicably comical. After a beat or two, she joins in, a rich chuckling that shakes through her small frame.

He can feel the tension between them finally dissipating, see her stance relax, and although he’s still annoyed by her intrusion, he has to admit that her offer is supremely tempting. He’s been tracking the wardens for months now, ever since he first started hearing rumours of their disappearance, ever since he first started hearing the unmistakable dull hum of the Calling. 

It’s too soon, _too soon_ , and while Alistair had only been with the Fereldan wardens for a short time before the massacre at Ostagar, he had gleaned enough warden lore to know that something was very, _very_ wrong.

The destruction of the Conclave, the breach that yawned above the Frostbacks, the disappearance of the wardens – Alistair found it hard to believe that all these things happening at once was mere coincidence. If the Inquisition had the resources to help him, to find some truth among all the chaos, well then perhaps it was worth risking Anora’s wrath and staying in Fereldan.

“Ok, _fine_ , you win,” he concedes with a wave of his hand, “I _have_ been tracking the wardens… and keeping note of all the rumours I hear… and, and… writing to, well, anyone I can think of.”

“And what have you found?”

“Honestly?” he lets out a dry bark of laughter, “not much.”

Bron reaches out to the documents scattered across the table, lets her fingers wander over the paper, tracing the lines he’s drawn across each map. Her brows are knit in concentration and he’s curious as to what she’s thinking, whether she thinks his notes are just pointless rambling or whether she sees the merit in his work.

“What do you think?” he ventures at last. “If I join this Inquisition of yours, will I be given the resources I need to find the wardens?”

“Honestly?” she replies, eyes still downcast as she reads the papers spread below her fingertips, “I don’t know.”

He nods. Of course she can’t promise him anything. She is, after all, merely a messenger. But whatever help the Inquisition _can_ give him will surely be better than nothing.

He reaches a hand out to push against her shoulder, turning her to face him so that he can look her straight in the eye.

“If the Inquisition wants my help to find the wardens… then… I guess they’ve got it. I’ll come with you to see Leliana.”

She smiles with obvious relief then holds her hand to him expectantly. He takes it, surprised by the strength in her small hand as she shakes his vigorously.

“Then may I be the first to welcome you to the Inquisition.”


	2. The Virtues of Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair tries to get a feel for his new travelling companion as the two of them start their journey to Haven.

Alistair’s head hurts, a dull ache that throbs from the back of his skull all the way around to his temples. His throat is dry, his tongue seemingly a little too large for his mouth, and there’s a tight prickle of sensation when he blinks, as if he’s been asleep for a hundred years and his eyes aren’t _quite_ sure they’re ready to be awake yet. He is immensely glad that the sky is overcast; he probably couldn’t handle a startling morning sun given his current condition.

_Oh Maker_ , that beer must have been shitter than he’d thought; he hadn’t even had that much!

When Bron emerges from the tavern’s stables with the horses in tow, she’s humming softly to herself, something light and nimble and wholly inappropriate for such a profanely early hour.

Well someone’s fucking perky this morning.

She stops as soon as she notices him watching, looking slightly abashed at having been caught indulging in this little moment of melodic whimsy. But she quickly schools her features into placid neutrality and there’s a contented smile on her lips as she hands over the reins to his horse.

Beside him, his dependable steed gives a disgruntled snort. “You’re right, Bill,” he murmurs conspiratorially into the horse’s ear when he’s confident that Bron has walked too far to overhear him, “you can’t trust a morning person. It’s best we keep an eye on her.”

Bill gives him a sympathetic whinny and nudges him in what Alistair likes to think of as friendly concern.

Bron had awoken him early, the sky yet dark and the tavern quiet save for the few staff preparing for the morning meal. Breezing airily into his room, she had outlined her preferred route back to Haven while Alistair was still sprawled awkwardly in his bed. He’d tried to sound as coherent and competent as possible, given the early hour and the insistent pounding in his head, but had mostly just agreed to her plan in the hope that his acquiescence would make her leave quicker. It had not been a particularly dignified encounter but then Alistair _had_ been raised by dogs; what did he know of decorum?

At least she’d brought a tray with some food and piping-hot tea. A depraved morning person she may be, but apparently not a cruel one.

Clambering onto Bill with a little less grace than he would have preferred, Alistair waits until Bron is herself mounted and then gestures at the path that leads from the tavern toward the main road. He knows the way to Haven, of course; his last visit there had been pretty memorable (it’s hard to forget cultists and a close encounter with a high dragon). But this is Bron’s show and he’s willing to let her take the lead.

From the tavern, the pair travel west, following the winding coastal paths typical to Highever. By the end of the day they reach Harper’s Ford and they stay overnight in a small tavern at the outskirts of the village before travelling southwards, following the road that leads them toward the old fortress of West Hill.

Their intention is to join the North Road just south of West Hill and then continue to the Imperial Highway at the northernmost point of Lake Calenhad. Then they would hug the western shore of the lake as they travel south toward Haven. Things would be a lot easier once they reached the Imperial Highway. Here, closer to the coast, the land is rough and the routes difficult to navigate.

Alistair thinks they’re making good time, despite the hard terrain, and as long as they continue to avoid trouble, he expects they’ll be in Haven within a few days. It’s still early Kingsway and the weather is still warm and pleasant, though the sun has lost a bit of its luster. The Frostbacks should still be reasonably easy to traverse (well… about as easy as the Frostbacks ever are).

As a travelling companion, Bron is… quiet. At first he appreciates her reticence. She never complains, never questions or pries, just calmly goes about her business. He’d expected her to be curious, to ask probing questions about his time with the wardens, or with the Hero of Fereldan during the blight, but she shows no interest in his past, merely contentment that he has agreed to come with her.

There is _some_ conversation, of course, perfunctory discussions on when to rest the horses and where to stop for the night. But other than that, they are mainly silent.

Which is exactly how Alistair likes it.

Well… exactly how he _sometimes_ likes it.

Sometimes, he supposes, it is rather nice to have someone to talk to.

Even in his exile, despite a preference for travelling alone, Alistair had found himself working with a number of mercenary troupes from time-to-time. He’d met his fair share of criminals and cutthroats, of course, and in those cases he’d been content to take his share of the payment and leave. But he’d met a lot of decent people too, refugees from the blight, the unlucky or the lost, all just trying to make do with what they had and eke out as good an existence as they could manage. It had been nice to listen to their stories, to try and guess which of the more outlandish tales were fabrications, and since sell-swords were happy to forego the usual niceties of conversation, he’d managed to avoid awkward questions about his past or identity. There had been something comfortingly (achingly) familiar about working with other people.

It’s a relief to him that Bron isn’t intrusive but after a while, well, the silence does get a little… _grating_. Without conversation, there’s nothing to distract him from the dull hum of the Calling, the endless whispering melody that skips and skims in broken, repeating fragments in his head.

They’ve almost reached The North Road near West Hill when Alistair finally snaps, turning to face Bron as she rides beside him and commenting, “are you always this quiet or do you just not like me?”

She starts a little at his sudden question, turning to look at him with bemusement.

“I don’t not like you,” she answers (not a particularly ringing endorsement, Alistair notes), “I just… what’s wrong with companionable silence?”

He gives a dry, humourless chuckle. “See, that’s just it, ‘companionable’ suggests a certain base level of friendship. What we have here is just _silence_ – there’s nothing companionable about it.”

“All right – well,” she shrugs, not entirely sure where he’s going with this line of conversation, “what do you want to do about it?”

“We could, perhaps, _talk_?”

Her eyebrows arch as if he’s said something outrageous. “We’ve _been_ talking.”

He frowns. “Hardly! Banal discussions on the most efficient route to Haven do not count.”

“Fine,” she says, voice heavy with weary resignation, and when he sees her shake her head he fears that she’s a lost cause, that she intends on being professional and curt all the way to Haven. But then her lips curl into a wry smile and there’s a hint of teasing in her tone when she asks, “do you… come here often?”

He lets out a snort of laughter, brief but hearty.

She’s making fun of him, her smile only broadening as he laughs, but it’s a start and he’s glad that she’s willing to play along. The long journey ahead will go a lot quicker if they can achieve something approaching friendliness.

“To this particular track of forest?” he muses, matching her irreverent tone, “no… I must confess this is a first for me.”

“ _Fascinating_. And how are you finding it so far?”

“A real treat, actually. I particularly admire the… ugh… general leafiness.”

Now it’s her turn to laugh, loud and clear, the sound echoing down the narrow forest path and sending a few birds skittering into the air.

“See! We’re practically best friends already!” he exclaims joyfully, “next thing you know we’re going to be sitting around the campfire, talking about boys and braiding each others’ hair.”

She pauses a moment and hums thoughtfully. “I think I might struggle to braid your hair.”

“That’s all right – I’ll do the hair-braiding, you can do the gossiping,” he fixes her with a knowing stare, “since you’re _clearly_ the talkative one.”

She laughs again, and he joins her, revelling in this small moment of unexpected camaraderie. This is… pleasant, Alistair thinks, travelling once more with a companion. Sure she’s a little taciturn, a little brusque, but there is real potential here. He decides that she has a good laugh at least, unguarded and genuine.

“So you’re from Fereldan then, originally,” he says in an attempt to start a genuine conversation, “but I’m guessing you don’t live here anymore.”

“And how do you suppose that?”

“You’re accent. It’s… a little peculiar.”

She purses her lips as if about to object but then smiles instead. “Yes, I suppose it is. I was born and raised in Highever but I’ve been travelling around Thedas since shortly after the blight. Mostly I’ve been in Orlais.”

“So this is a homecoming for you.”

She shrugs, perhaps in an attempt to appear indifferent, but there’s too much tension in her face for the gesture to seem genuinely nonchalant. “I’m not sure Fereldan is really home anymore.”

It’s an innocuous enough statement but he finds the words needle more than he expects. “I know how that feels,” he says, a little quieter than intended.

They lapse into silence again, though Alistair is relieved to find that it’s not as uncomfortable as before.

After a while he notices that Bron is watching him, brows knit in thought as she attempts to subtly appraise him from the corners of her eyes. Finally, as if she has only just summoned the courage, she asks, “so why did you leave Fereldan?” 

He feels his spine stiffen, an involuntary reaction to a question he’d hoped she wouldn’t ask. “Didn’t Leliana tell you?” he asks in a poor attempt at evasion.

“She told me that Queen Anora exiled you,” she replies.

“Well then… there you go.”

“But she didn’t tell me _why_.” 

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

Her eyes narrow in irritation for the briefest moment and Alistair is certain that she’s going to carry on pushing until she gets the answers she wants. But she surprises him when instead she returns her attention to the road ahead and says simply, “fair enough – I don’t need to know.”

_Huh_.

Just like that. He asks her to stop and… she does. It’s such a simple thing, for her to respect his desire for some privacy, but he’s amazed at how _pleased_ it makes him feel. Perhaps this journey to Haven won’t be so bad after all, perhaps even pleasant.

His contentment is unfortunately short-lived and it is with growing unease that he notices a carriage blocking the road a little further ahead. He’s seen this before; it looks eerily like an ambush.

By his side, he can see Bron straighten in her saddle, her face turning stony as she too sees the danger in their situation. It is a good sign; she’s clearly well-travelled enough to have developed some instincts for troubling set-ups. 

When they’re nearer the carriage, several figures step forward. Three well-armed men stand in the middle of the road, two more stay nearer the tree line, possibly archers maintaining their distance. It’s not great odds, but then Alistair’s faced far worse.

He wishes he knew more about Bron’s fighting ability. Though she presents herself as a mere messenger, Alistair strongly suspects that she’s more deadly than she seems. Leliana would not have sent her on an important mission alone had she not been able to defend herself.

A broad, red-faced man separates himself from the rest of the group, smiling wickedly as he looks up at the pair of them.

“Well isn’t this a lovely pair,” he sneers, “going somewhere nice?”

His comrades laugh. Alistair is not amused.

“Unfortunately there’s a toll in place for this stretch of road,” he continues with false sincerity, “but if you just hand over 30 gold each, we’ll let you go on your way.”

“What?” Alistair sputters, outraged by the audacity of such a high sum, “there’s no toll here. We’re not giving you anything.”

“That’s too bad – it would be a shame if your lady-friend here had to see something _unpleasant_.”

Bron’s frown deepens, eyes fierce and sharp. “Either you fuck off,” she spits between clenched teeth, “or this lady-friend is going to cut off your knee-caps and use them to make percussion instruments.”

Alistair can’t help the snort that escapes him; he had not expected her to be the type that favoured colourful taunts. The bandits, however, seem less enamoured by her inventive choice of words and they glower peevishly as they unsheathe their weapons.

Fine – if battle is what these men want, Alistair is not going to disappoint them.

Alistair turns to signal at Bron but finds her already hurriedly dismounting her horse. He quickly follows, his hand immediately reaching for the long-sword at his back. When his feet are firmly planted on the ground, he squares his shoulders and pivots his sword in his hand, testing its weight and balance in preparation for the imminent attack. At his side, Bron has pulled a long, elegant rapier from her horse’s pack, and now stands alert on the balls of her feet.

Ah, a duelist then, this will be interesting.

The red-faced man moves first, lurching toward Bron with a spitting snarl. But before he can reach her, Alistair dashes forward to intercept, jabbing his elbow into the snivelling man’s nose then, when he’s doubled forward in pain, smashing the pommel of his sword into the base of the man’s skull with a satisfying crack. As the first bandit falls, Alistair twists away and turns to engage the others. Bron ducks under his sword arm as he turns, sprinting toward the archers at the edge of the battlefield while dodging their spray of arrows.

Another bandit charges toward Alistair, dual daggers scything the air in tight circles in front of him. Timing his attack carefully, Alistair thrusts his sword upwards, catching both daggers mid-slice before pushing with all his might until the bandit is sent staggering back. A shrill shriek is wrenched from the bandit’s throat when Alistair delivers a sharp, brutal kick to the knee but the sound is cut short when Alistair brings his blade across the man’s neck, slicing in one swift, deft movement. 

Suddenly he hears a dull thuck and when he looks down, there’s an arrow protruding jauntily from his leather cuirass. He’s relieved to see that the arrow hasn’t penetrated down to the skin but the hit distracts him long enough for one of the remaining bandits to backhand him viciously. He’s sent sprawling to the ground, his sword skittering from his grasp with the force of his fall. Winded and wheezing, eyes swimming and bones thrumming from the impact, Alistair only just manages to roll out of the way to avoid a downward thrust from the bandit’s sword. It occurs to him too late that he’s just rolled away from where his weapon has fallen and as he stares up at the terrible grin of the bandit looming over him, he realises that he is unarmed and powerless. 

He holds the bandit’s stare, unflinching, uncowed, and waits for the ending blow.

Instead, the slender tip of a blade appears from the bandit’s throat and the unfortunate man falls to his knees with a wet, burbling groan. Behind him stands Bron, her rapier still embedded in the back of the bandit’s neck. She places her foot on the bandit’s shoulder and gives him a firm kick to remove him from the end of her rapier, looking unnervingly pleased with her handiwork as his aimless corpse slumps to the ground.

Alistair hurries to pull himself to his feet so that he can face the remaining bandits but instead he is met with only still silence. The forest road has fallen quiet and calm once more, though now adorned with several bodies and spattered liberally with wide arcs of crimson.

When he turns to Bron, she’s carefully picking her way between the bodies, eyes scanning the blood-soaked earth in search of anything that might prove useful.

“You disposed of the archers?” he asks, sounding more surprised than he’d really intended.

“Yes,” she replies and Alistair suspects from the downward curl of her lips that she’s a little offended by his question.

“And then you saved my life?”

“Yes,” she repeats, although now her frown is replaced with a smug little smile.

He smiles in return, she probably deserves to be a little smug, and nods appreciatively. “Well then - thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she says as she bends to rifle through one of the bandit’s pockets, “and I’m sorry you got shot.” 

“Bah!” He dismisses her apology with a wave, “just a glancing blow.”

Having helped herself to a number of coin purses and small, valuable-looking tokens, Bron finally comes across Alistair’s wayward long-sword at the edge of the battlefield. She lifts it up carefully and gives it a thorough wipe with the torn edge of a bandit’s cloak before carrying it back to its rightful owner.

“You probably want to keep hold of this,” she drawls, smirking wickedly as she hands the weapon back to him.

“Yes, _fine_ ,” he says, chuckling good-naturedly. After all she _had_ saved his life, he could allow her to poke some fun at his expense. “Go ahead – have your fun.”

“Clearly you’re losing your touch,” she teases, smile wide and toothy, “what _have_ you been up to since the blight? Going to spa days? Indulging in Orlesian pastries all day?”

Her words strike something unexpectedly raw inside him. He knows that she’s joking, knows that her words are just harmless teasing, but he feels something prickle under his skin nonetheless.

“Yeah… something like that,” he says with forced levity, and he turns to retrieve their horses before she can notice how she’s riled him.

What _has_ he been doing since the blight?

Mostly he’s been angry, angry at Anora for exiling him, angry at Elissa for betraying him, angry at himself for failing the wardens, the one family he has ever truly known. He’s wasted so much time on anger, wasted so much time doing petty tasks for petty men; there is, after all, little dignity in the life of a mercenary. Everything from the last ten years just seems so _pointless_.

He gives his head a firm shake when he takes hold of Bill’s reins, tries to push the maudlin thoughts from his head. Maybe once he's reached Haven, once he's helped the Inquisition find the lost wardens, maybe then he'll be able to salvage something good, something worthwhile, from these wasted years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	3. Some Semblance of Honour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's a flashback to fill in some of what happened between Alistair's exile and his meeting with Bron. There'll be a few more flashbacks throughout the fic but I'll keep them to a minimum to avoid confusion.

**Seven years earlier – Kirkwall**

Alistair had been in his fair of shitty taverns over the years, had stomached some astonishingly vile beer while surrounded by the most despicable, most heinous criminal scum ever to be found throughout Thedas. And yet somehow, miraculously, The Hanged Man manages to surpass them all as truly the most wretched tavern Alistair has ever had the misfortune to drink in. The air smells foul – the tavern’s patrons even fouler – and Alistair is trying very hard not to think about how the floor managed to get so bloody sticky.

There is only one way to make sitting in this shit-hole bearable and that is to drink more – drink _a lot_ more.

Alistair finishes the last dregs of his beer, feels the rank, sharp liquid burn down the back of his throat, then bangs his tankard against the scored surface of the bar.

“Another!” he cries to no one in particular, trusting that someone behind the bar will hear his plea and happily take his money in exchange for this fetid, diluted slop. His trust appears well-founded when a new, full tankard appears before him and Alistair throws a handful of coins onto the bar before taking his first, hurried mouthfuls of beer. He guzzles his drink quickly, taking long desperate gulps like a man drinking his first cup of water after wandering the desert for days.

The beer falls in rivulets down his chin then sploshes in thick droplets onto his already badly stained shirt. He knows he looks a mess, hair sticking in clumps to his clammy temples and clothes in dire need of a wash, but here, among the most desperate and deranged of Kirkwall, he’s finding it hard to care.

Alistair had never been a particularly vain man but he _had_ liked to look… _presentable_. His time with the Templars had taught him discipline, the importance of well-maintained armour and good posture, and his time with the wardens had taught him pride, pride in wearing the royal blue uniform that showed that he _belonged_. But his pride had been stripped from him the moment Elissa had conscripted Loghain into the wardens and he could feel his discipline slip away more and more with every drink.

_Fuck Loghain_.

And fuck Elissa for rewarding his betrayal with a place among the honoured wardens.

He slams his now empty tankard onto the bar with more force than is strictly necessary. His movements are clumsy, his body buzzing with the copious amounts of alcohol he has consumed, and he knocks over several drinks when his arm flails a little wide.

“Watch it!” comes a disgruntled shout from his side. “Look what you’ve done! You have to pay for those now!”

Alistair blinks at the man standing beside him. _Is he talking to me?_

The man is angry, mouth twisted in an almost feral snarl, and his face is turning an increasingly alarming shade of puce. He paws at his waistcoat with hands shaking with fury, wiping at the spilled beer in a vain attempt to protect his clothes from staining.

“I said, you have to pay for my beers!” the man repeats, this time far louder.

Deciding that this is a delicate situation requiring diplomacy and grace, Alistair leans forward and spits out a curt, “fuck off.”

If the man was angry before, he is livid now, pulling himself to his full height and puffing his chest out in a display of intimidation that is largely lost on Alistair.

“You spilled my beers,” the man explains as if speaking to a child, “now you have to pay for them or…” The man tapers off as Alistair rises from his barstool – clearly a lot taller than he had been expecting.

“Or what?” snarls Alistair with a coldness that would have been uncharacteristic before his exile.

To Alistair’s surprise, the man doesn’t back away but leans forward, head tilting slightly back to peer straight at Alistair’s face with beady, rage-filled eyes.

“Or me and my mates teach you a lesson about manners,” the man says with a sharp jab to Alistair’s chest, “you Fereldan dog.”

It is only now that Alistair notices the other men in his vicinity. There must be about four of them (his head is swimming too much for him to really pin down the exact number), all reasonably well-built and all sharing a similarly angry expression.

For a moment Alistair thinks about how he can best diffuse the escalating situation, to retreat as quickly and safely as possible. But then that moment passes, slipping away from a mind too drunk for sensible thoughts, and instead Alistair thinks about how he can best piss off his new acquaintances.

“You call _me_ a dog? You’re – _you’re_ the dog!” he shouts back, smiling smugly when his drunken brain congratulates him on having delivered such a devastatingly witty retort.

“Now, fuck off!” he continues, “I’m the fucking Prince of Fereldan and I demand that you treat me with respect!”

The angry man bursts into laughter that ripples to the nearby patrons. Clearly none are particularly convinced by Alistair’s declaration of royal heritage.

“I _am_ the Prince of Fereldan!” he repeats again, and he’s a little embarrassed when he realises how young, how _whiney_ , his voice sounds as he shouts.

“Yeah, well, if you’re the Prince of Fereldan, you can afford to pay for my drinks,” the man says as he steps forward, reaching toward the leather pouch on Alistair’s belt as if he can just take the coin that he’s demanding.

Alarmed by this sudden invasion of his space, Alistair attempts to punch the man with limbs made heavy from drink but instead merely clumsily shoves him aside. The man stumbles a little from the force but as soon as he’s righted himself, he throws his own punch which, unlike Alistair’s earlier attempt, makes swift, sharp contact with Alistair’s jaw.

_Andraste’s arse_ , that hurts.

If his head wasn’t swimming enough before, it certainly is now and it takes a few moments for Alistair’s eyes to come into focus again. When they do, he notices that several of the man’s friends have pulled out a number of weapons, small daggers mainly but a few larger blades as well. 

This is about to escalate very quickly and very badly. 

Alistair raises his fists in an attempt to adopt a more intimidating stance but he can tell from the tittering of laughter nearby that he looks more the drunken fool than the seasoned fighter.

The man pulls his fist back again and Alistair braces himself for another blow but instead a hand unexpectedly grabs the man’s forearm. The man is suddenly wrenched back and before Alistair can really figure out what’s happening, a woman has stepped between himself and his assailant.

“Come now, gentleman,” she coos, voice soft and only a _touch_ exasperated, “let’s put an end to this before we all do something that we regret.”

The woman is tall and well-muscled, with a mop of dark hair that’s only just long enough to be pulled into a messy ponytail at the nape of her neck. She smiles as she surveys the assembled group of men, expression warm and open, but there’s a sharpness in her eyes that suggests she’s not to be messed with. She’s unarmed, looks relatively harmless, but there’s something about her, something unassumingly dangerous. Alistair can feel an odd sensation, a curious _whispering_ at the back of his head that he is sure has nothing to do with the drink.

And then it hits him.

_Mage_.

Now _this_ is interesting. An apostate, running free through the City of Chains.

“How about I just pay for these drinks,” she says as she claps the angry man companionably on the shoulders, “and then we can all go about enjoying this fine evening.”

“I don’t want _your_ coin, I want _his_ ,” the man says with an aggressive nod in Alistair’s direction.

The woman’s smile falters, clearly irritated with his lack of cooperation. “Ok, fine,” she starts, the sweetness in her voice now sounding a little more forced than before, but then she smirks crookedly and her voice is dripping with honey when she says, “well how about you get _no coin_? How about you bugger off and, in exchange, my friend here doesn’t arrest you for brawling?”

Alistair only now notices the woman’s companions, one of whom is a formidably-built, red-headed woman who gives a coy little wave at the men. He doesn’t know who the woman is but the men certainly do, visibly quailing under her gaze.

The men make no further objections, no more threats or insults, merely slink away from the bar and toward the door into Lowtown. The woman nods her face, clearly satisfied, and although Alistair is grateful for her assistance, his throbbing jaw wonders why she couldn’t have turned up earlier.

Alistair is just about to articulate some sort of thanks when he finds himself lurching to the side, his legs clearly deciding that he’s been standing just a little bit too long. The woman catches him before he hits the floor and he’s surprised, not only that she’s able to hold his considerable weight but that she bothered to catch him at all.

“Woah, there!” she says as she wraps her arms around his torso, “let’s just set you down somewhere.”

She carries him, back bowed and gait erratic from the effort of supporting him, toward a small semi-circle of armchairs around the fireplace.

“I’m the Prince of Fereldan, you know,” he slurs as he stumbles gracelessly in step with her.

“Yeah, I heard, congratulations,” she replies, voice tinged with obvious scepticism, “I’m Hawke.”

Hawke settles him down into one of the chairs and when she’s sure that he’s sufficiently propped up and not about to flop onto the floor, she turns to talk to her companions.

“Actually, I think he might be telling the truth, Hawke,” says one of her companions, a tall, sandy-haired man, and though Alistair can’t hear Hawke’s response, it’s clear from their hushed tones and the prickling sensation at the back of his neck that they’re talking about him.

After a brief moment of murmured conversation, Hawke’s companions give her a nod and a smile before heading to the back of the tavern and disappearing up a flight of stairs.

He expects her to follow but instead she just stands in the halo of the fireplace and watches him where he sprawls in the armchair. Does she want something from him? Was she expecting some sort of payment for helping him? He gropes ineffectually at the pouch on his belt, stiff fingers failing to work the knot that holds it closed, and wonders whether he actually has anything to give. 

Finally, Hawke pulls one of the armchairs closer to him and sits down.

“So you’re the Prince of Fereldan?” she asks, and though some of the scepticism remains in her voice, there’s none of the cruelty that he would expect from such a question.

He nods.

“Well nobility clearly doesn’t agree with you,” she says, “because I’ve seen you around here for some time and, honestly, you’re a fucking mess.”

He laughs, though there’s no humour in it.

“What the hell happened to you?” she asks.

“Oh, you know, the usual,” he says with a shrug, “betrayed by the one person I thought I could trust, sent into exile from my home, threatened with death should I ever return.”

“Exile, huh?” She nods thoughtfully, slender finger tapping on her chin as she observes him. “My friend says he knows you, says that you’re a warden, says that you were a hero once.”

Alistair scoffs. “That was… I’m not… _fuck_ …” He runs his hands through his hair then rubs his eyes with his fists. A kaleidoscope of colours burst behind his eyelids and he can feel the first twinges of a headache coming along.

“If you can’t go back to Fereldan – fine – find somewhere else to go. Find _something_ to do. Because _this_ ,” she gestures at his slumped form, his stained clothes and flushed, blotched face, “is a waste.”

Her words needle unexpectedly. _A waste?_ He agrees with her, if he’s completely honest with himself. He’d always thought he was a waste – an unnecessary addition to the Maker’s creation, unwanted wherever he went – but it prickles under his skin to hear her say it. Alistair finds himself surging with a flurry of sudden anger.

“What do you know about my life, huh?” he spits, words quiet but forceful. “I tried to do the right thing, the _honourable_ thing – listen to the Arlessa, obey the Chantry, fight and die for your warden brothers – but what did it get me? Exile, that’s what. I tried to save Fereldan, tried to help people, and in return I was betrayed and abandoned by everyone I ever ca- _ever trusted_. You know nothing about my life, _nothing_.” He stops to take a short, raggedy breath. He can feel his anger ebbing, coursing away as quickly as it came. “I don’t need your help, and I don’t need your advice; I just want to be left alone.”

Hawke’s expression is not easy to read, lips pulled into a thin, straight line and eyebrows slightly slanted, but there is neither sympathy nor pity in her eyes and Alistair finds himself grateful for that.

She pauses for a long moment and Alistair suspects that she’s going to walk away, another hopeless cause in a city full of lost souls, but instead she leans forward and holds his gaze with so much fire in her dark eyes that he finds himself unable to look away.

“Well boo-fucking-hoo!” she drawls sarcastically, “So the Maker gave you a shit-deal in life – join the fucking family! I’m a Fereldan refugee living in the fucking arse-end of Kirkwall, do you think my life is just a constant party? Life sucks. People die, and those who don’t just live long enough to stab you in the back. And you can either sit here and become another pitiful drunk in the Hanged Man, or you can sort your shit out and go do something useful.”

Alistair is a little taken aback by her outburst and he finds himself squirming uncomfortably under the intensity of her gaze. He’s trying to lean away from her but the armchair hems him in, trapping him.

“I can’t… I’m not…” he stutters, grasping at words that don’t quite come into focus. “I’m not a warden anymore. I can’t go back to the wardens. 

Hawke shrugs. “Then don’t.”

“Then…” he tapers off, too exasperated and drunk for coherence, let alone eloquence.

Alistair had never, not once, decided on the course of his life. From the household of Arl Eamon, to the Chantry, and then finally the wardens, Alistair had simply stood idly by as other people had used him for their purposes. He’d been happy to leave the Chantry for the wardens, of course, but it hadn’t exactly been his decision; just a fortuitous twist of fate. Even when his fellow wardens were slaughtered at Ostagar, Alistair still hadn’t reclaimed control, choosing instead to place his trust in Elissa Cousland and let _her_ dictate where his path would lead. It was embarrassing, really, to think that he’d let himself be controlled his entire life, and as soon as he’d been given responsibility over his own destiny, he’d become a pathetic, wandering drunk.

“What am I supposed to do?” he asks finally, voice small and wavering.

Hawke’s face softens a little, though her eyes still hold that piercing sharpness that Alistair suspects is always there, and she sits back a bit, giving him a little more space.

“You’re a big, strapping young man,” she says with a playful lilt of her eyebrows, “and there’s always work available in Kirkwall for someone who’s good with a sword.”

“A mercenary?” he asks, and his contempt is clear from his voice.

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” she scolds gently, “and it’s a good way to earn some coin while you sort your shit out.

When Hawke suddenly stands from her chair, Alistair is surprised at how anxious he feels at the prospect of losing her. Though her words are abrupt and unpleasantly pointed, she’s the only person to show any interest or concern for him since he left Fereldan. “I’ll put you in touch with someone,” she says as she tugs her shirt down and tucks it sloppily into her trousers, “as long as you work hard, he’ll do you right.”

“Why are you doing this?” Alistair asks with genuine curiosity. What could she possibly get out of helping him?

“I don’t know,” she answers honestly, “maybe it’s because you seem like a decent man who’s had some bad luck. Maybe it’s because I know what it’s like to be forced out of Fereldan with nowhere to go.” She pauses for a moment then chuckles wryly, “or maybe it’s because Varric’s stories make me out to be a hero and I don’t want to disappoint him.”

Alistair has no idea who this Varric is but there’s no chance to ask Hawke any more questions as she turns and walks to the back of the tavern, disappearing up the same flight of stairs where her friends had gone earlier in the evening.

When she’s gone, Alistair bends forward in his armchair, elbows resting on his knees as he cradles his now pounding head in his hands. This was not what he had expected, this offering of kindness from a relative stranger. He still wasn’t sure what Hawke hoped to gain out of helping him but perhaps that wasn’t important right now. Perhaps Hawke was right; perhaps he _could_ try to find some dignity in this lonely, small existence.

Duncan had once told Alistair that he was destined for great things. Alistair hadn’t believed him at the time, his self-esteem too meager after years of scolding from the Chantry sisters and Eamon’s Arlessa. But he’d treasured those words nonetheless, kept them safely tucked away in the hope that one day he might, against all odds, manage to live up to them anyway.

Duncan had seen greatness where Alistair had seen only a burden, an unwanted orphan boy fit only for living in the stables with the dogs.

He was unlikely to achieve greatness now, exiled and abandoned as he was. But, perhaps, with some help from Hawke, he might regain some semblance of honour. He owed Duncan that at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this little intro to my Hawke. She'll be back later in the fic in a more substantive role. 
> 
> I just realised that this is the second time in only three chapters that Alistair gets yelled at by a formidable woman in a tavern.
> 
> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	4. When the World Stops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback over and back to the main story! This is a nice Bron-centric chapter - hopefully giving you a good feel for her character. Alistair and Bron ponder the next leg of their journey when Bron receives some life-shattering news.

Bron places a short dagger on the high, wooden counter. It’s a simple weapon, devoid of ornamentation, but soundly made and nicely balanced, and the shopkeeper nods thoughtfully as he lifts it and holds it close to his dark, deep-set eyes. He pivots the dagger in his hands then places it back on the counter.

“I’ll give you 20 silver,” he says, stroking idly at his stubbled chin with his thumbnail.

“Fine,” Bron replies simply, pushing the dagger forward to make space on the counter for the rest of her offerings.

The bandits she and Alistair had encountered in the forest had been simply equipped, holding only a few worn weapons and small personal trinkets between them. Nevertheless, Bron is confident that she might still fetch a decent sum of money from the items she’d managed to scavenge to support their onward journey.

She pulls another dagger from her pack, smaller but with an elegantly curved handle suggesting Antivan craftsmanship (or at least a decent imitation), followed by a braided leather band which hums with the distinctive aura of an enchantment. The shopkeeper offers her 50 silver for the pair and she accepts with a sharp nod and another curt, “fine.”

From the corner of her eyes she can see Alistair frowning at her, a subtle tug at the inner curve of his brows to convey his disapproval at her blunt tone. There is a warmth to Alistair that Bron has always lacked, an easy friendliness that draws people to him. Every innkeeper they’d encountered during their week of travel, every barmaid and stable boy, had been met by Alistair with a smile and idle, friendly chatter. He was still somewhat guarded, Bron had noted approvingly, never really revealing much about himself or the reason for their journey, but he talked aimlessly and told bad jokes, and, as a result, he and Bron had been welcomed wherever they went.

Bron admits that it’s an admirable quality, though it’s not one that she particularly desires to emulate. Bron had always been direct and matter-of-fact, and she sees no particular reason to change now. She may not be the most popular person wherever she goes but she gets shit done and that is enough for her.

Finally she pulls a locket from her pack, dangling it pendulously in front of the shopkeeper from its long chain. It’s unexpectedly fine considering the dishevelled bearing of its former owner. Both the chain and locket are gold; the front of the locket bearing a delicately engraved border of inter-locking scrolls.

Though the shopkeeper tries to remain impassive, Bron does not miss the slight widening of his eyes nor the subtle twitch of a smile; clearly he hopes to fetch a good price for such a superb example of craftsmanship. Even Alistair appears somewhat intrigued by her find and he leans forward slightly to admire the locket as it turns slowly in the sputtering lamplight of the shop.

With a flick of her fingers she opens the locket to show the inside to the shopkeeper. On one side is a quote from the Chant written in elegantly curled script, on the other side is a wrinkled piece of parchment bearing a rough sketch of a smiling woman and child. It’s a good sketch, the woman’s homely features and the child’s mischievous smile rendered in thoughtful strokes of charcoal.

“He had a family,” Alistair murmurs quietly, barely loud enough for her to hear, and Bron can’t quite decipher the tone of his voice. Is it sadness he feels for the bandit that they killed? Sadness that he will never again be reunited with this gently smiling pair? Or perhaps it’s pity? Pity for a father drawn to banditry out of desperation? Pity for the family now left to fend for itself?

Bron feels a dull pang of sympathy somewhere at the back of her mind but it’s not enough to make her regret their small victory on the forest road. The man had threatened them, would gladly have killed them if his skill had allowed it. Whether or not he had a family was surely irrelevant. If his family had truly meant that much to him, he would have pursued a safer career-path than petty banditry.

“Evidently,” she says flatly before reaching out with her spare hand and plucking the picture from the locket. She pointedly ignores Alistair’s aghast expression as she crumples the small scrap of paper in her fist then pushes it unceremoniously into her jacket pocket.

“How much?” she asks the shopkeeper.

“I’ll give you five gold,” he replies.

"15," Bron counters without pause and she feels a sharp twinge of irritation when the shopkeeper responds to her perfectly reasonable offer with a shake of his head and a gentle chuckle.

Dissatisfied with his response, she narrows her eyes in warning and raises one brow sharply. It’s a cold look, hard and slightly threatening, developed over years of practice, and the shopkeeper’s laughter is cut short as he shifts uncomfortably under her glare.

“15,” the shopkeeper repeats, “of course.”

The shopkeeper fumbles slightly as he counts out the coin, stubby fingers made clumsy under Bron’s scrutiny. When the small pile of gold and silver has been assembled on the countertop, Bron gives a modest smile and thanks the man cordially before sweeping the coins into her wallet.

Alistair reaches to open the door as they make to leave the shop but Bron beats him to it, pushing the door open and waving him through with a small nod of her head.

“You have a real way with people,” Alistair drawls sarcastically as he steps through the doorway and into the cold, rain-soaked streets of Dulwich Village, “would it really kill you to smile?”

“I _did_ smile,” she replies as she pulls the hood of her cloak up and tucks her long braid inside.

“Really? _That_ was a smile,” he says with exaggerated surprise, playfully nudging her shoulder with his own, “you need more practice.”

She rubs at her shoulder where he’d made contact, glowering at him from the sides of her eyes in quiet warning. It was only a gentle nudge - certainly too light a knock to hurt - but Bron has never been fond of unsolicited physical contact and she cannot help but express her disapproval. From the wicked curl of his smile, Bron can tell that he did it on purpose just to irritate her, taking a perverse sort of pleasure in watching her scowl. He is apparently more observant of her foibles than she had given him credit.

“The man was trying to cheat us,” she says, “I will save my smiles for someone more deserving.”

Alistair laughs. And even though she knows he’s laughing at her, it doesn’t seem to bother her. “Fair enough, my friend,” he says with a nod, “fair enough.”

They plan the next leg of their journey as they wind through the village streets toward the tavern where they'd rented rooms the night before. Bron favours turning west as soon as possible, taking the most direct route back to Haven near Gherlen's Pass, while Alistair prefers staying close to Lake Calenhad and travelling south for at least another day before heading into the Frostbacks. Bron can't help but scoff at such an overly cautious route – they have proven themselves perfectly capable of protecting themselves thus far – and she's pleased when Alistair begrudgingly relents.

Bron has always found that things are easier when people just do as she says.

When the rain intensifies, the pair dart under the nearby awnings of the market stalls, and for a while they simply stand in silence and watch the rain as it patters onto the cobblestones. There’s something oddly soothing about the methodical drumbeat of the rain across the rooftops, something entrancing about the overlapping patterns of ripples that play atop the widening puddles, but after a while, Bron feels herself growing increasingly restless; she is not used to idleness.

With the rain seeming reluctant to stop, Bron starts to aimlessly weave through the stalls, inspecting the wares on offer as Alistair trails behind her. The market is quiet, the heavy deluge discouraging all but the most determined of shoppers, and Bron is content to lose herself in her directionless wanderings. Occasionally she’ll walk past a pair of gossiping shopkeeps, or skirt round a gaggle of villagers as they discuss some local drama in hushed tones, and Bron simply lets the murmured conversations wash over her, too preoccupied with making plans for the onward journey to pay them any mind.

Suddenly a snippet of conversation intrudes on her thoughts, something about a tragedy and then the word ‘Haven’, and Bron finds herself stopping abruptly to listen.

“Nothing remains of the village,” says a short, portly woman, arms laden with groceries and a fidgeting child tugging insistently at the corner of her apron.

“Nothing at all?” asks her taller friend, shock evident in her tone.

“An avalanche buried the whole village under snow,” says the woman with a sorrowful shake of her head, “surely no one has survived.”

For a moment everything seems to just stop.

She tells herself not to panic unnecessarily, to keep her emotions in check until she has all the available facts. Maybe she misheard them. Maybe it’s some other village in the Frostbacks that has met an unfortunate fate. And even if catastrophe _has_ befallen Haven, maybe the Inquisition was able to save itself in time.

But no matter how hard she tries, Bron can’t overcome her fear through reason alone and she can feel the colour draining from her face at the growing realisation that something truly terrible may have happened.

She hurries over to the women and she must look a little wild because they look at her with alarm (and maybe a little concern) as she pushes into their conversation.

“Are you talking about Haven? _Has something happened to Haven_?!” Bron asks, and her voice sounds alien to her ears, shrill and hurried.

“It’s gone, dear,” says the taller woman, voice soothing as if talking to a frightened child, “the village was destroyed by an avalanche. Some say that an archdemon was there.” She shakes her head to show her displeasure, “first this terrible war with the mages and now maybe a blight… when will these terrible punishments cease?”

“And what of the Inquisition?” Bron hears Alistair ask from over her shoulder; she hadn’t even noticed him approach.

“Gone,” was the simple response, “there are none who survived.”

And just like that Bron feels the ground lurch beneath her feet and there’s something bubbling at the back of her throat that might be an anguished cry but she pushes it down with all her might because she can’t, _can’t_ let it be heard - not now, not here. Instead she steps back from the women with their concerned faces and their outraged voices, and walks determinedly into the rain.

She doesn’t know where she’s going, just knows she has to _go_ , has to _move_ , because the ground keeps shifting below her boots and if she doesn’t keep walking, she fears she’ll fall.

_Haven is gone._

It had only been her home for a few months but she’d walked those winding, frost-bitten streets with a _purpose_ , with the powerful, _comforting_ feeling that she was working toward some crucial goal.

_The Inquisition is gone_.

And Bron daredn't think of how many people have gone with it, how many small, broken bodies lie buried now beneath a snowy shroud.

She had friends among the Inquisition - _good friends_ \- friends she loved almost as family.

There's a sharp pang in her chest as she imagines Leliana's face among the dead, blue and bruised and eerily devoid of the expressions that gave her delicate features such beauty. Her dear, _dear_ Leliana - who'd taken a sheltered, provincial girl from Highever, and given her the world; who'd taught a scrawny, quiet girl how to carry herself with grace and strength, how to both command the attention of a room and disappear among a crowd.

Her Leliana is dead, and it is only _now_ Bron realises that she had never told Leliana just how much she’d meant to her. The words had always seemed so unseemly, so _grotesquely sincere_ , and Bron's mother had always warned her against sentiment; an indulgence for the dim-witted, she’d been told.

Her head is swimming, the cold rain stinging her skin as it spatters on her face, and when she feels a hand grab her by her elbow to pull her to a halt she lashes out blindly to be set free because, more than anything, she just wants to be alone with her grief.

But the hand stays put, Alistair’s grip too strong to be dislodged by Bron’s aimless thrashing, and there’s nothing Bron can do to resist when Alistair turns her to face him.

“Bron, stop – you’ve got to… stop,” he says, and there’s such softness in his eyes that Bron feels an unexpected flare of anger because she can’t _bear_ to be looked at with such… such _kindness_.

She yanks her arm free from his grip with an almost petulant scowl and gives his chest a sharp jab with her finger.

“Don’t!” she cries, “just… don’t.”

He looks at her with confusion, raising his palms in a pacifying gesture.

“Don’t… what?”

“Don’t… look at me with _that face_!” she snaps, finger still hovering warningly between them, “I don’t want your sympathy and I don’t want your pity,”

His brows twist together in thought, lips pulled thin, and it’s clear that he’s trying to choose his next words carefully.

“All right,” he finally manages, “what _do_ you want?”

She tries to say that she just wants to be left alone. But when she opens her mouth to answer she suddenly feels her throat tighten and the words won’t come. Instead her lips are quivering and there’s an uncomfortable stinging in her eyes that has nothing to do with the rain, and she’s suddenly hit with the terrible, _terrible_ realization that she’s about to cry.

As the first few tears course hot tracks down her cheeks she can see Alistair’s hands reach involuntarily up to comfort her. But before he can touch her, he clearly thinks better of it and instead his hands hover awkwardly in the space between them.

A strangled sob escapes her, quiet but painfully raw, and before she really realises what she’s doing, she steps forward into the semi-circle of his arms until she stands only a hair’s breadth away from him. They don’t touch, the small space between them studiously maintained, but she’s close enough that she can feel the warm puffs of his breath against the crown of her head and she’s dimly aware of how peculiarly intimate it feels to stand so close to him.

After a moment of stunned stillness, Alistair finally brings his hands to rest on her shoulders, gently, tentatively, in case she decides to brush him off. But instead she surprises him again when she bends her head to rest her forehead on his chest.

They stand for a long time, still as statues in the rain, and as the cold starts to settle into Bron’s limbs, she finds the encroaching discomfort a welcome distraction from her grief. And she’s dimly aware that Alistair is talking, something about getting warm and not wanting to catch a cold, but she’s not really listening because the Inquisition is dead and there’s no space in her head for any other thoughts.

The Inquisition is dead and, with it, the only purpose she knows.

_Oh Maker, what is she going to do?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	5. Purpose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair and Bron contemplate what they're going to do next and then get into an epic argument.
> 
> I thought I'd be able to write this chapter really quickly and easily. It's just a conversation, I said, how hard can it be to write one conversation? It turns out it can be bloody hard.
> 
> The first draft of this was really vicious - just uncharacteristically mean for both characters. I'm clearly a really horrible person for putting such nasty words in their mouths.
> 
> There's so much talking in this chapter and I'm really sorry - next chapter we get onto some action and I'm quite excited for it.

Alistair does not expect the little old lady to swear quite so… _vulgarly_.

But then the little old lady probably hadn’t expected to be knocked to the ground by a fast-moving, absent-minded warden. So, in retrospect, he supposes he can’t begrudge the woman a few, creative insults.

“I’m so, so sorry – _so_ sorry!” Alistair babbles as he hauls the woman up by her armpits, struggling as she fusses in his grip and watching in dismay as her groceries spill from her shopping basket.

Once she’s back on her feet he starts scrambling along the street, grasping vainly at assorted fruits and vegetables as they bounce teasingly out of his reach.

“Andraste’s arsehole!” she shouts after him as he crawls across the ground, “just leave them! It’s just fucking fruit for fuck’s sake!”

He manages to grab a pair of oranges before they roll under the wheels of a passing cart and feels a peculiar surge of triumph that is not entirely warranted given his rather modest achievement. He tries to polish them up a bit, knocking off as much mud as possible by rubbing them against his tunic as he trudges dejectedly back up the street. But there’s nothing he can really do about the bruises or the dents, and he can’t help but grimace at their sorry state.

He smiles sheepishly as he hands the miserable fruit back to the old woman and she gives him a frosty scowl in return. He supposes he deserves that.

“I really am sorry,” he says again, head bowed as if the Chantry Mother has just caught him falling asleep again during the Chant. 

“Yes, I got that,” she replies dryly, seeming less angry than Alistair had expected and more _tired_.

Looking down to inspect the oranges clasped in her wrinkled hands, she turns them to see the extent of the damage, then drops them unceremoniously into her basket with a mournful sigh.

“If you had been paying attention to where you were walking rather than... _daydreaming_ like some fucking idiot, then this wouldn’t have happened!” she mutters, wagging a finger at him scornfully. “Now go bother someone else!”

Alistair gives an awkward nod then scurries away before the woman can berate him some more, although the defiant part of him feels the sudden urge to defend himself because he _hadn’t_ been daydreaming. He had, for once, been deep in _serious_ thought.

And serious thought, Alistair had concluded, is thoroughy overrated.

He had been thinking about the fate of the wardens. He had been thinking about The Calling, and how long he had left until he could ignore the summons to the Deep Roads no more. He had been thinking about the disaster at Haven that had seen the demise of the Inquisition.

But mostly, he had been thinking about Bron. 

She hadn’t really said much since she’d heard the news about Haven a few days prior and the quiet had become… _unsettling_. If she’d screamed and cried and rallied against the injustice of it all, he would have understood. Instead she’d just made perfunctory comments about the weather and carried out chores around the village.

Of course, Bron had _never_ really been the most talkative of travelling companions, but she’d just _finally_ started to open up to him and Alistair had found himself growing used to her easy conversation and dry humour.

He misses it; he misses _her_.

But worst of all, he just doesn’t know what to _do_. He wishes he knew what to say to comfort her, to make her _talk to him_ , but she’d made it pretty clear that all she wanted was to be left alone. He fears that if he tries to cheer her up, he’ll only say the wrong thing and then she’ll give him one of _her looks_. And Alistair _really_ doesn’t want that; he finds Bron scary enough at the best of times, but now, silent and downcast, she’s downright chilling.

Without any idea of how to help Bron, instead he’d spent the last few days focusing on his own business, trying to figure out what to do now that the Inquisition was obviously no longer in need of his services.

It had been nice when he’d thought he could help find the wardens, when he’d thought he could be useful, _important_. But now he realises how foolish he’d been.

It’s obvious to him now that he should’ve just let _someone else_ find the wardens.

Someone with the resources and the contacts to do the job properly.

Someone like Hawke.

His old friend had contacted him several months ago with questions about the wardens, spurned on by her concern for her warden brother. And then a lengthy correspondence had followed, with the two of them writing back and forth with whatever information they could gather. Nothing conclusive, of course, but he’d hoped that in sharing whatever information he came across, he and Hawke might, together, be able to figure out why The Calling had struck and the wardens vanished.

He’d written to Hawke the night that Bron had shown up in his room, telling her about the Inquisition’s search for the wardens.

And now he’d written to her again telling her of the Inquisition’s demise and giving her all the information he’d gathered so far.

Let Hawke do with the information as she wished. Let Hawke be the one to solve this puzzle. Let Hawke be the hero.

Hawke was the far more obvious candidate anyway. As the Champion of Kirkwall, even a champion on the run, she would be far better placed to find the wardens.

And then Alistair can go back to this old life, go back to drifting from town to town, picking up whatever work he can find. He’d been making a decent living after all, certainly enough to get by. And sometimes he had even felt like he was doing something worthwhile, using his skills as a swordsman to help people against extortionists and bandits.

That’s it – time to abandon silly notions of finding the wardens and get back to work.

He’d spent the last few days making inquiries around the village, had found out about a merchant in the neighbouring settlement who might be interested in some strong-arms to accompany him and his wears to Orlais.

It sounds like a decent job, exactly the kind of work Alistair had excelled at before.

And maybe… well… _maybe_ he can persuade Bron to come with him.

While Bron had been… _difficult_ at first, he had unexpectedly grown genuinely fond of her during their short time travelling together. She’s intense, sure, and stern almost to the point of rudeness. But she’s thoughtful, and insightful, with a sharp wit that Alistair finds oddly endearing.

Besides, she’s good with a sword. And she can endure long travel without complaint. She would make an excellent partner, he thinks, for the kind of mercenary work that had supported him during his exile.

What else is she going to? Return to her family? Does she even have a family? Alistair had never heard her talk about any family; she’d only ever talked about the Inquisition.

As he enters the tavern where they’d been staying for the last few days, he’s trying to think of what exactly he’s going to say to her. He’ll start by telling her about Hawke, and then tell her about the job he’s found nearby. Then he’ll ask her whether she’s interested in joining him. He imagines she’ll immediately say no. But he’s also relatively confident that he can put forward a reasonably compelling argument – particularly if she has nowhere else to go.

He pauses for a moment just outside their room, takes a few steadying breaths to steel himself for what he imagines will be a rather difficult conversation.

When he finally goes through the door, he barely makes it across the threshold before he comes to an abrupt halt.

“Andraste’s tits!” he exclaims, “what in the void is happening?" 

\---

Bron can’t feel her legs.

She has no idea how long she’s been sitting cross-legged on the floor but as she feels the numbness spreading up her legs, she concedes that it’s perhaps been too long.

It’s a relief actually. The numbness is preferable to the skittering tingle that had been annoying her for the last few hours.

She should probably get up, maybe pace around her room a bit to work some feeling back into her stiff limbs. But the floor is covered in paper, pages ripped from notebooks covered in scrabbled script and maps adorned with hastily scrawled lines, and she dare not move in case she disrupts hours of careful work. 

She’s getting close to something. She can _feel_ it. She’s not entirely sure _what_ it is that she’s close to – but there’s something here, something in Alistair’s haphazard assortment of notes that holds some truth about the fate of the wardens.

And that’s it. That’s all that matters now: just finding the wardens.

She knows that she can do it; she _knows_ she can solve this puzzle. Then she can find the wardens. Then she can find out what links them to the breach, what links them to the rifts that are spilling demons across the lands of Thedas. Then she can finish the work that the Inquisition tried to start before it was so cruelly ended.

And she needs this. Needs _so badly_ to have something to do, some purpose to achieve.

She’s so close, _so close_.

Suddenly the door opens and a little burst of air causes her meticulously arranged papers to rifle and ripple. With a flurry of panic, Bron desperately grasps for the papers, furiously patting them down to keep them in place.

Dimly she’s aware of Alistair talking, and there’s something in the tone of his voice, confusion, perhaps, or maybe concern, but she’s too busy trying to preserve her work to really pay him any mind.

She shoots up her hand before he can cause any more damage, palm raised to him in warning.

“Stop!” she cries, “not another step forward! You’ll ruin it!”

“What _is_ it?” he asks, and though she doesn’t look up at him, too preoccupied with checking that her notes are still in their assigned order, she can tell from the slight waiver of his voice that it is indeed concern that colours his tone.

“I should think it’s obvious,” she replies, head still bowed over the papers strewn across the floor, “it’s your research after all.”

There’s a pregnant pause as Alistair surveys the carefully ordered chaos at his feet, and while he makes no attempt to say anything, Bron finds his presence annoying nonetheless. She can _feel_ him standing there – watching, _looming_ – and she almost wishes he _would_ say something so she can tell him to shut up.

Suddenly Alistair kneels at the edge of her papers, and there’s another little whoosh of air as Alistair’s hulking form lumbers inelegantly to the floor.

“Careful!” she snaps again.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, and Bron’s about to reprimand him again until she sees him straightening out the papers that he’s just disturbed and Bron feels instead a tiny pang of appreciation.

“So…” he ventures cautiously, “what is this?”

Deciding that it’s unlikely that Alistair will just leave (and, _Maker_ , she wishes he would just leave), Bron heaves a sigh as she finally raises her head to look at him. “I’m looking at your research,” she explains in clipped tones, “your research on the wardens. There’s some _interesting_ information here. There’s… I think-” there’s a pause as she struggles to articulate her thoughts, “I think you were on to something.”

He shakes his head as he looks at her, his face marred with obvious unease at the mess she’s strewn across the bedroom floor, at her hurried, peculiarly jumbled speech. 

“I wasn’t on to anything, Bron,” he says, “it’s just… it’s just nonsense. Rumours and hearsay. There’s nothing there!”

“No, look,” she says, pointing to some papers then drumming her fingertip against a nearby map. “You’ve theorised that the wardens are taking part in some sort of… rituals. _Blood magic_. And then wardens have been travelling to the Western Approach.”

“That’s just… gossip. I heard it from a barkeep who’d heard it from a drunk who he _thought_ might be a warden. That’s hardly a reliable source.”

“Then we find some information to confirm it!” she says as if it’s the most obvious thing in all of Thedas.

“And how do you suppose we do that?”

“Go to the _original_ source, of course! All your information is second-hand – just rumours and unverified chatter. We need to find out _straight from the wardens_.”

He scoffs. “Well how do you suppose we do that? The wardens are hardly the most talkative bunch”

“We go to Amaranthine!”

He visibly starts at that – her answer clearly not one that he had been expecting – and he opens and shuts his mouth a few times before finally stuttering out, “w-what?!... no!”

“Why not?!”

“We can’t just stroll up to the warden’s Keep and ask them what’s going on!” he yells with unexpected sharpness and Bron can feel her brows arch toward her hairline in surprise. It is not like Alistair to raise his voice.

He rakes his fingers through his hair and takes a few deep breaths before continuing a little calmer, “the locals saw the wardens leave the Keep months ago – and even if there _are_ wardens still left behind, can you imagine them just _telling_ us what’s been happening?”

“Of course not. That’s why we’ll just have to break in and find out for ourselves. There’s got to be a report somewhere, a diary, _something_ that’ll explain what’s going on.”

“You can’t break into Amaranthine!”

“You don’t think I could break into Amaranthine?!" she asks sharply, oddly affronted, "I’ve broken into my fair share of Keeps, I’ll have you know!”

“I’m not – I’m not _doubting_ your proficiency at breaking and entering!” he shouts, his voice growing increasingly exasperated, “I’m just… I’m questioning whether it’s a good idea!”

“Well how else are we going to find out what happened to the wardens?”

“Why do _we_ have to find out at all? Let someone _else_ do it!” he shouts, and Bron doesn’t mean to wince but he’s just so _loud_ , his voice seeming too big for the cramped confines of their room.

He throws his hands up in frustration and stands up, looking around the room as if looking for an escape route. But while she expects him to leave, he instead carefully edges around her spread of papers until he can sit down on the wonky couch that he’s been using as a bed during their stay.

She frowns at him as he moves, unable to keep her irritation hidden behind her usual mask of casual indifference. She just can’t understand why he’s being so _difficult_. She knows that he wants to find the wardens, that their unexplained absence weighs heavily on his mind, so why is he being so resistant to her perfectly reasonable plan? 

Her joints click loudly as she pulls herself to her feet to follow him; her limbs moving stiffly as she tries to carefully pick her way across the papers strewn across the floor.

“Who else will do this if not us?” she asks when she’s finally standing in front of him, looking down at his hunched form on the couch.

“I have a friend,” he says, “I’ve sent them all the information I have. Let _them_ find the wardens. They have a far greater chance of success than I.”

“You mean Hawke?”

His head jerks up sharply, clearly surprised by her question.

“How did you know about Hawke?”

“Everyone knows about the Champion of Kirkwall.”

He gives her a pointed look, clearly irritated by her purposefully evasive response. “No – I mean, how did you know that I’ve been in contact with her?”

There’s a slight pause as Bron shuffles uncomfortably, uncertain as to the best response to Alistair’s question. But before she can proffer an explanation, Alistair clearly reads the answer in her hesitation and Bron watches in dismay as the confusion drains from his face to make room for anger.

“Did you read my letters?!” he shouts, loud and fierce, and Bron feels a sudden prang of guilt at how _hurt_ he sounds.

“No, I didn’t read your letters,” she answers calmly, then gives a hesitant pause before continuing with, “but I _did_ look to see to whom they were addressed.”

“What? I don’t… how did you… when did you even _see_ my letters?”

“They were in your pack,” she says simply, shrugging her shoulders slightly, “it wasn’t hard to find them; you didn’t even _try_ to conceal them.”

“You looked in my pack!” he shouts, rising abruptly from the couch, and, _Maker_ , Bron had never thought Alistair could sound so angry.

“Only to look at the letters!” she explains quickly, scrambling to think of why their conversation had turned so ugly and whether she could somehow fix it. “It’s not like I was just rummaging around! Honestly, I don’t know why you’re so surprised. _Of course_ I wanted to know with whom you’ve been corresponding. I _am_ an Inquisition spy after all.”

His brows quirk down and his lips draw thin, and – _shit_ – that was not the right thing to say.

“You _were_ an Inquisition spy!” he sneers. “Now the Inquisition’s gone, you’re just a snoop with no respect for personal privacy!”

 _Oh_ – now that’s unexpected.

She can tell from the way his face suddenly tightens that he regrets the words as soon as he’s said them, and there’s an awkward, wary pause as he watches her for some sort of reaction.

She supposes his words should hurt more, the loss of the Inquisition still a fresh wound, but he’s only spoken the truth and she finds it difficult to begrudge him that.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, and Bron is amazed at how quickly his anger is replaced with remorse, how quickly his expression softens into one of regret. And for a startling moment she feels – well she’s not quite sure how she feels – guilty, perhaps? Because she can’t remember whether anyone has ever looked so sorry for having hurt her feelings before and, to be honest, she doesn’t think she really deserves his apology.

“No, don’t apologise,” she says, waving her hand dismissively, “you’re… you’re _right_.”

She steps back, creates some space between them, trying in vain to escape his towering form and his too kind eyes, and for a long while they stand in awkward silence in the corner of the room. The air feels thick and stifled, as if their angry words still hang in the air between them, and Bron suddenly feels oddly deflated.

She’d felt buoyed when she’d been working on the floor, drawing Alistair’s information together, coming close to finding the answers that had eluded her for so long. But now, standing in front of Alistair’s pity-filled eyes, she just feels like some crazy woman, rambling about warden conspiracies and trying to persuade her sole remaining friend to break into a well-fortified stronghold.

“I’m sorry,” she says at last, and she pauses to make sure that he’s looking straight into her eyes when she adds, “I won’t invade your privacy like that again.”

He nods almost imperceptibly in acknowledgement of her apology and the tension between them seems to bleed away.

“Wow,” he finally breathes, “this is not the conversation I was expecting to have when I walked through that door.”

She looks at him with one brow arched questioningly. “And what conversation _were_ you expecting to have?”

“I think I’ve found work,” he says, “a merchant in the neighbouring village needs someone with a good sword arm to accompany him to Orlais.”

“Oh,” she replies plainly, and while she’s sure her expression is calm and unassuming, she can feel a peculiar tightening in her stomach. For some reason that she can’t seem to understand, the realisation that Alistair wants to leave her makes her feel oddly panicked.

She’d kind of assumed that Alistair would just come with her wherever she led; it hadn’t even _occurred_ to her that he might make his own plans.

“You could come with me?” he suggests, and Bron wonders whether she’s imagining the hopeful lilt in his tone.

“Do you want me to?” she asks in place of a reply, calm expression still in place, only now there’s a strange little pitter patter in her heart at the oddly thrilling thought that Alistair wants her to come with him.

“Yes, of course I do,” Alistair says with a raggedy breath that Bron suspects was supposed to be a chuckle. “You’re skilled with a blade – you would be an invaluable asset.”

Oh… _right_ , of course. He doesn’t really want her companionship, just her skill with a sword.

“And, you know,” he adds, the faintest of blushes darkening his cheeks, “I would quite like the company as well. _Your_ company, that is.”

Oh… _well_. That’s nice.

Because they _do_ make a good pair, much to Bron’s surprise.

Alistair is too talkative, of course, and frustratingly self-deprecating, burdened with so much self-doubt that Bron honestly cannot understand how he bears it. But he’s also considerate, and he’s funny, and while he’s a far cry from the heroic figure that Leliana had described him to be, there’s something quietly honourable, almost distinguished, about him.

And now with the Inquisition gone, he really is all she has left.

But she knows that her pride would never allow her to become a common mercenary. And no matter how endearing she finds Alistair, she knows that his friendship is not enough to give her life a sense of purpose.

And Bron _needs_ purpose, some higher goal to strive toward. Because she’d seen too many capable, intelligent, _extraordinary_ women – women like her mother – waste away while living their mundane, little lives in Highever, and Bron was determined not to become one of them.

“I… can’t,” she says at last, and Alistair is far less adept at schooling his expressions because she can immediately see his face droop at her rejection. “I _have_ to go to Amaranthine. I _have_ to find the wardens. And I hope that you’ll come with me… but I’ll understand if you can’t.”

He throws up his hands with frustration, lets out a petulant sigh. “Why is this so important to you?” he asks, a little exasperated, yes, but also genuinely curious.

She takes a moment to pause and think, choosing her words carefully, knowing that this is probably her last chance to persuade Alistair to come with her.

“It can’t be a coincidence that the wardens disappeared at the same time that the breach appeared,” she says, voice filled with tense urgency, “ _something_ is terribly wrong in the world and the wardens are right at the heart of it. Now we can either stand aside and watch the world crumble or we can do something about it!”

She steps forward and grabs his hands, desperate to convey just how important this is to her, and it’s clear from the slight widening of Alistair’s eyes that the gesture surprises him.

“Yes, the Inquisition is gone,” she continues, “but _we’re_ still here. And as long as I live, I’m going to do _whatever_ _I can_ to finish the work that the Inquisition started!”

She looks up at him imploringly, desperately hoping beyond everything that she has, at last, persuaded him to come with her. Because as determined as she is to do as she says, and seek out the wardens, she’s also afraid, _terrified_ really, that she can’t succeed on her own. And if Alistair doesn’t come with her, then who will help her?

She wishes she could read him better, see beyond his surprise and his discomfort and understand what he is truly thinking. His eyes are wide, obviously a little taken aback by her impassioned call to action, but the rest of his face is blank, and there’s a long silence as he takes the time to consider his next words.

“Are you sure this isn’t just grief?” he asks, and Bron can’t help but grimace at his somewhat disappointing response.

_Grief?_

She can’t help but feel a little affronted by his question. As far as Bron is concerned, she’d already taken time to grieve. She’d taken a moment to cry, to mourn for those that she’d lost, but that was days ago and now she was over it. 

Of course Bron recognises that there is no shame in grief, her mother had taught her that; it was a healthy and natural response to loss. But to wallow in grief was vulgar, an indulgence for those with too much time on their hands.

“You’ve suffered a terrible loss,” he continues, pointedly ignoring Bron’s outraged expression, “and as much as you pretend that it doesn’t bother you, I know that it must. Are you sure that this plan of yours… are you sure that it’s _reason_ that’s driving you, not grief?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” she replies, a little too quick to be completely convincing.

Alistair purses his lips and glares at her with narrowed eyes in response, clearly still doubting that Bron is truly as over her grief as she insists. But he doesn’t push her, doesn’t probe her resolve, just chuckles softly as he shakes his head resignedly.

“You’re going to go to Amaranthine anyway, right? Whether I come with you or not?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well then I suppose I _have_ to go,” he says, and while he still sounds unsure, Bron is encouraged by the slight upward tug at the corner of his lips, “ _someone_ has to keep you out of trouble.”

She can’t help but smile at his words, not the small, polite smile she gives to stable boys and shopkeeps, nor the sly smirk she makes when she’s amused by her own humour, but a genuine, open smile, wide and crooked and toothy.

His smile broadens in return and they both stand and grin at each other like fools, suddenly giddy at the realisation that, _yes_ , they really are embarking on some ludicrous mission to find the wardens and save all of Thedas.

And yet despite the absurdity of their situation, and the enormity of the task ahead of them, Bron finally feels a huge weight lift. Because she doesn’t feel powerless anymore, no longer frustrated and vulnerable, just determined.

Bron has a purpose again, a purpose _and_ a partner, and if the Inquisition can no longer save Thedas, well then she’ll just have to do it herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	6. Behind Stone Walls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bron does her spy thing at Vigil's Keep.

Bron sidles gingerly across the ledge, toes pushed as far against the masonry as possible as she inches along the wall. Her fingers cling to the cracks between each grand slab of stone, her calloused fingertips only just managing to hold her body flush to the outside of the keep. Her cheek rubs against the wall with every step, skin catching against the rough stone, and the splintering pain is an unwelcome distraction when she really just wants to focus on staying alive.

One wrong move will send her plummeting 50 feet to the courtyard below and while Bron is _relatively_ confident that she is not going to meet a tragically premature death this night, she’d rather concentrate on her footwork than worry about the blossoming pain as her cheek is ripped raw.

And besides, it would be rather embarrassing to meet an untimely end _now_ when Bron is so close to breaching the main keep. There’s a small window up ahead, overlooking the narrow ledge along which Bron is making slow but steady progress, and as long as she can reach the window before her grip falters, well then she’ll be inside and the hard part will be over.

This final leg of the climb has proven more difficult than Bron had originally expected. She’d spent the last week reconnoitring the perfect entry route, had spent the last few nights hopping the outer and inner curtain walls so that she could slink around the ward and courtyard and take stock of the keep’s layout and guard postings. And while the window does indeed present an ideal entryway into the keep, the ledge had looked far wider from ground level and is now proving a greater challenge than expected.

At least the rumours Alistair had heard about Vigil’s Keep during his travels had so far been proven correct; the keep really did appear to be largely abandoned, with only a few token wardens left on patrol. Bron had encountered very few guards making their rounds so far and she hopes that she will find the interior of the keep similarly deserted.

When Bron finally reaches the window, she’s dismayed to discover that it’s a little higher up the wall than she had anticipated and her fingers can only just curve over the top of the windowsill 

_Well bugger_ , she thinks, stifling the frustrated groan that she can feel rumbling at the back of her throat.

It’s not an insurmountable problem, of course, but she’s already tired from the climb and she’s just not sure whether she can muster one more burst of energy.

Tightening her grip as strongly as she can, Bron smears her feet against the wall a few steps then swings her left leg up until her heel hooks onto the wooden sill. She rocks her weight over her heel and simultaneously pulls with all the strength in her arms, trying desperately not to smack her face into the windowpane as she levers herself onto the sill.

Balanced precariously on the narrow shelf, Bron lets out a raggedy sigh and waits a few moments for her heart to stop pounding so furiously before trying to continue. There’s no point rushing when her haste will simply lead to errors she can ill afford.

Pulling a small, slim knife from her boot, she works the latch of the window until she hears a faint click and the pane slowly creaks open. It almost seems too easy after her long, arduous climb. But then she suspects nobody expected anyone to be stupid enough to attempt to climb the keep’s sheer, stone walls, otherwise they would have installed proper locks on the windows. Although proper locks probably wouldn’t have been able to keep Bron out anyway, at least not for long.

She closes the window gently behind her, not wanting to leave anything amiss in case someone walks passed, and starts creeping down the corridor in no particular direction. Despite her days of snooping, she’s never been able to determine the interior layout of the keep, never explored this far inside, and now she’s forced to just trust her instincts and hope she can find something about the wardens before the night is spent. 

Bron is relieved to find that the inside of the keep is just as quiet as the ward and she moves through the corridors largely unimpeded. The barracks present nothing of interest, and neither does the library, and Bron is just beginning to feel the first pang of disappointment when she pushes open a heavy door and finds herself in a packed office. 

The walls are lined with bookcases, each shelf groaning beneath piles of books and reams of paper, and even the desk that dominates the centre of the room is burdened with carefully organised piles of letters, missives and leather-bound tomes. Bron lets her fingers trail along the pages as she walks around the desk, a small smile tugging at her lips.

She picks up a small pile of letters addressed to a Seneschal Varel and gives this unknown man her silent thanks. Hopefully his correspondence can help her find the answers she seeks. 

Realising that her time is fleeting, Bron starts to rifle through the papers and books, her fingers plucking furiously between the pages while trying not to disturb the carefully organised piles too much. Hopefully no one will even notice she’s been here until she’s long gone.

She sees a few letters about the Western Approach and then several more about the venatori; they are immediately snatched from their pile and placed on the chair. She hasn’t got enough time to read each letter now. She can only hope that she’s picking the most pertinent documents based on the little snippets she’s seen.

There’s a folder filled with missives from Warden Commander Clarel – it’s added to the growing pile on the chair – and then Bron finds a small notebook with scrawled notes about someone called Corypheus. She’s about to put it back where she’d found it but then she remembers seeing the same name in some of Alistair’s notes and while it means little to her, perhaps it’ll have some meaning for him. She adds the book to the pile. 

Bron’s not sure how long she’s been rummaging through the Seneschal’s things but soon she gets the slowly crawling feeling that it’s perhaps been _too long_. After one last glance across the desk (and she didn’t even get a chance to hunt through the shelves), Bron gathers the papers she’d set aside on the desk chair and carefully slides them into her pack. When she swings the pack onto her back again, she’s a little disconcerted to realise that it’s a fair bit heavier than she’d imagined and the extra weight seems to slightly throw off her balance.

_Hmmm… the downward climb will be trickier than planned._

Still, it’s nothing that Bron can’t handle – she’s certainly climbed under trickier circumstances – and Bron heads through the door of the Seneschal’s office with a satisfied smirk on her face. She’s found far more information than she’d imagined and she can scarcely wait to get back to Alistair and start pouring through the documents.

She winds through the dim passageways of the keep, quickly, confidently, stopping only to check that her route is clear.

Nearing the corridor that leads back to the window where she’d entered, Bron comes to an abrupt halt when she hears hurried footsteps coming from just ahead. She immediately backtracks, heading toward the spiral staircase that she’d just descended, but she can hear voices drifting down the stairwell as well and Bron is suddenly struck with the unpleasant realisation that people are approaching her from both sides. 

There’s a small recess in the wall just ahead, a narrow alcove where an unlit brazier stands ready, and Bron pushes herself into the space as quickly as she can, drawing herself in so that she takes up as little space as possible. The cumbersome pack proves stubbornly reluctant to hide with her and it takes Bron a few minutes of uncharacteristic flustering until she can manipulate the bag to fit into the narrow space.

Bron stills as the footsteps near, taking only small, shallow breaths as she waits for the wardens to pass. Two men in rapt conversation walk passed. One man, tall and dark-haired, with a distinctly hooked nose, is discussing a training schedule for the few remaining wardens in the keep, while the other man, older and bearded, interrupts whenever he can to add his own insights.

As she watches them pass, the dark-haired man stops unexpectedly, looking thoughtful and oddly startled – as if he’s suddenly remembered that he has something important to do but cannot remember what it is.

He’s barely a few feet away from her hiding place and Bron holds her body taught as she patiently waits. Is it possible that he heard her? Caught a glimpse of something amiss from the corner of his eye? Maybe he can just sense her presence, a warden trick of which she’s unaware?

She waits in the uncomfortable stillness, willing silently for the man to continue on his way, when two more wardens arrive, walking from the direction of the stairwell. The new arrivals greet the dark-haired man and his elderly companion, and a lively conversation ensues. One of the wardens, a dwarf, laughs heartily at his own joke, earning him a good-natured rebuke from the dark-haired man, and then all four of them walk down the corridor and away from Bron’s alcove.

Even with the corridor clear, Bron waits a few more minutes, ears strained, until she’s sure that she can hear no other wardens in the vicinity. When she’s finally satisfied, she unfurls from the cramped confines of the alcove and stretches her limbs until she hears the pleasant pop of her joints.

_Ugh – that was unpleasantly close_ , she grouses to herself as she starts down the corridor once more, her legs protesting at the sudden movement.

It’s not long until Bron finds her way back to the window that will lead her away from the keep and to safety, and while it’s a welcome sight, it’s also a somewhat daunting one; she’s not really looking forward to the downward climb. She peers out over the windowsill to the small ledge below, then the sheer walls that drop down to the courtyard at the foot of the keep. It looks a long way down. It had not been easy, manoeuvring herself up to the window in the first place; doing the same move in reverse will surely be impossible.

Well – she’ll just have to jump for it, let her body drop from the window and hope that she can catch the ledge before she plummets to an unfortunate end. Then she can sidle along the ledge while hanging from her fingers. It’ll take her some time, and tear the skin on her fingertips to shreds, but right now it appears to be her only option.

She clambers onto the windowsill, turns her back on the sweeping view over Amaranthine, then gingerly lowers herself until she’s hanging from the sill, body stretched below her. All she has to do now is let go, let go and let her body fall until she can grab the ledge.

Let go, and hope her reflexes are fast enough.

Let go, and hope her fingers are strong enough.

_Oh shit_ , she mutters beneath her breath.

And then she lets go.

\---

Alistair takes a long, slow swig from his hip flask and revels in the burning sensation as the brandy scours down the back of his throat. It’s sickeningly cheap, of course, an exile isn’t particularly well-placed to procure the good stuff, but it does the job and Alistair can feel its calming effects on his nerves.

It’s been a while since he’s had a drink; Bron hasn’t really let him drink during their weeks together. It’s not that Bron has _explicitly_ been preventing him from drinking but she’s kept them busy, efficient, travelling at such a prodigious rate that Alistair has simply not had the time to waste away the hours sitting at a barstool.

He doesn’t want to admit how much he’s missed it, how much this one simple drink is already working wonders to release the tension he can feel coiled in his chest. There’d been a time when he’d drunk, well… a lot. When Elissa’s betrayal was still fresh, when he was first coming to terms with his exile, and only the blistering haze of alcohol was enough to dull his senses. But it had been years since those days, those days of aimlessness, of bar fights and crippling self-pity. He doesn’t _need_ to drink anymore, doesn’t need to dull his senses or forget his worries. He just _likes_ to drink, likes the way it warms his stomach, likes the way it calms his nerves. 

And, _Maker_ , is he nervous.

_Bron has been gone for hours_.

Somewhere behind the grey turrets and curtain walls of Vigil’s Keep, Bron is scouring the warden fortress for some information, some long-elusive insight into the warden’s whereabouts, and Alistair is… _worried_.

He trusts that Bron is skilled, that she knows what she’s doing. And his fears had been somewhat allayed by her days of research, the numerous visits to the keep to determine its layout. She’d returned safely the last few nights, why should tonight be any different?

He takes another long sip.

There’s a half-written letter on the desk in front of him, another report for Hawke giving her an update on their search for the wardens, but he’s not really in the mood to finish it right now. He’s too preoccupied with thoughts for Bron. And, if he’s completely honest, he’s probably had a bit too much to drink by now; his own handwriting already seems blurred and indistinct to his eyes.

And so he has nothing to do except wait.

And pray.

He doesn’t speak to the Maker often, and he rather suspects that the Maker would probably prefer not to hear from him, but if his prayers can somehow help Bron in returning safely, well… he supposes it can’t hurt.

When he finally hears the doorknob rattle, he startles slightly in his seat and makes for the dagger resting on the tabletop. But before he can get a proper grip on his weapon, Bron hurries through the doorway, and it’s a good job that she’s not an enemy because his reflexes appear embarrassingly slow tonight. 

“You’re back!” he cries with more enthusiasm than strictly necessary, but his immense relief at seeing her is genuine and he doesn’t really see the need to hide his feelings when they’re the truth.

“I _am_ back!” she says in response, voice buoyed with equal enthusiasm.

She’s smiling, broad and crooked and more than a little smug, and Alistair immediately knows that her mission must have been a success.

“You found something?” he asks, mainly out of politeness to give her the pleasure of answering in the affirmative.

“Yes I did!” she answers, swinging her pack off of her back and dropping it triumphantly onto the desk. “Just look,” she insists as she opens the pack and starts pulling out the documents, “letters, notes – even hand-written orders from Warden Commander Clarel herself!”

It’s a dizzying array of information that she’s managed to collect and Alistair’s not sure whether it’s just the cheap booze or whether it’s Bron’s infectious delight, but there’s a pleasant buzzing at the back of his skull. Maybe, for the first time in as long as he can remember, something is going _right_.

He flicks through the papers, not really taking in the contents, just marvelling at the trove of information now at their disposal. The wardens had always been so damned secretive. Even before he was exiled from the order, there had been so many things about them that he’d never known, let alone understood. There’s a perverse thrill of pleasure in finally having the secrets of the wardens in his hands – a delightful _fuck you_ to Elissa.

“This is _incredible_ ,” he breathes with obvious wonderment.

“I know,” she says with a smug smirk and a playful quirking of one brow.

But then the cheer suddenly drains from her face and Alistair’s not sure what’s happened to upset her but when he notices her eyes focus on his hip flask sitting atop the desk, Alistair suddenly feels oddly shamefaced.

Can she tell that he’s a little drunk? Can she smell it on his breath? Is she judging him for it? Bron had never seemed the puritanical sort but then she _had_ dedicated her entire adult life to working for the Chantry. Despite their weeks of travel together, he still doesn’t actually know that much about her.

She picks up the hip flask and carefully unscrews the cap before taking a tentative sniff. She immediately recoils, her nose crinkling in disapproval.

He opens his mouth to explain himself to Bron, although he’s not really sure what there is to explain. It’s pretty obvious what he’s been doing while waiting for her. And he doesn’t really feel that he _should_ have to defend himself to her. His enjoyment of the occasional drink isn’t really any of her business, whether she disapproves or not. 

But before he can say anything, Bron turns her back on him and walks primly across their shared room to her pack in the corner. He can hear shuffling for a moment, followed by a metallic chinking, and when she turns back to face him, there’s a crooked grin on her face and her own hip flask in her hand.

“We are _not_ going to celebrate with that watered-down piss,” she announces triumphantly and Alistair can’t help but grin in return.

She takes a long swig from the flask as she walks back across the room and when she offers the flask to him, he gladly accepts it.

He takes his own long sip and – _Maker_ – this _is_ the good stuff.

“Antivan?” he asks, not because he considers himself a particular connoisseur of brandies, but because the only person he’d ever known to keep such good alcohol on hand had been Zevran.

She nods, and he thinks that she might look impressed but it’s more likely that he’s just imagining it. When she reaches out her hand to take the flask back from him, he hands it over with palpable reluctance, but before she takes another swig, she stops and pauses, looking oddly thoughtful.

She holds the flask up. “To the Inquisition,” she says with a nod, “though our friends may be lost to us, may their spirits guide us to success in the task ahead.”

She takes a quick sip before handing the flask over, looking at him somewhat expectantly. Although if she’s hoping that he’ll contribute his own toast, he fears she may be bitterly disappointed; Alistair had never been one for fine words. He mulls the flask over as he turns it in his hands, watching the candlelight dance across the smooth silver, before holding it aloft.

“To _us_ ,” he says before taking a long, indulgent swig of warming brandy.

Because the two of them, this unlikely partnership, means far more to him than the Inquisition ever had. Alistair had never known the Inquisition, had only ever heard about it through other people, and while Bron had spoken of the Inquisition with great reverence and pride, it had never really felt _real_ to him. 

But Bron _is_ real. Difficult, yes, and challenging – infuriating even – but she’s real and she’s here and she makes him feel hopeful.

And that, he had decided, was worthy of a toast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	7. Finding Meaning in Unusual Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair got a character-building flashback earlier in the fic and now it's Bron's time!
> 
> And then it's back to our favourite duo as they continue on their journey to find the wardens.

**Seven years earlier - Highever**

Lady Cousland’s delicate fingers trail idly over the assortment of jewellery pieces displayed on the tabletop before her. There’s a necklace with matching earrings featuring a delicate floral design, a headband of stylised feathers, a wide choker of interlocking geometric shapes. Her fingers stop to trace the swirling engraving on a silverite armband before finally coming to rest on an elaborate dragon-shaped headpiece.

Bron smiles as the Teyrna lifts the piece for closer inspection; it is, after all, one of her finest creations and she is inordinately proud of it. The dragon is rendered in the highest-quality gold and its outspread wings, fanning dramatically to each side of its body, are adorned with brightly coloured enamel insets.

Bron’s father may be renowned as one of the finest blacksmiths in all of Thedas, but Bron’s skill for delicate metalwork far exceeds his. He’d tried to teach her his craft, like he’d done with her brothers before her, but while she’d proven an _adequate_ blacksmith, she’d taken to the finer, more detailed work with astonishing finesse. So while the duelists and the chevaliers flock to her father’s forge for their custom swords and tailor-made armour, the nobles of Highever and across the Coastlands come to Bron for the finest jewellery and adornments.

Lady Cousland frowns as she turns the tiara in her hands, brows ducking low and nose curling disdainfully.

“It’s a little… on the nose, don’t you think?” she asks as she looks down at Bron, “I mean… a _dragon_ motif for a party commemorating the end of the blight?”

“I suppose,” Bron answers, smiling tensely. She’s trying to look cheerful, trying to hide her disappointment with the Teyrna’s criticism; she suspects she’s probably failing.

“No I think I’ll go for these pieces instead,” she says, tapping on the necklace of entwined flowers with her fingertips.

_Florals_? Bron thinks, barely suppressing a smirk, _how original_.

“An excellent choice,” Bron says nodding.

One of the Teyrna’s servants immediately plucks up the necklace and its matching earrings from the table so that she can finish dressing her mistress while Bron starts carefully putting away the rejected items into her pack.

If the Teyrna doesn’t want the dragon, well, _fine_ , it’s her loss.

Lady Cousland smiles at her, politely but not warmly, before turning her attention toward the mirror in the corner of her dressing room. She is immediately enveloped by servants brandishing an incomprehensible array of hairpins and ribbons, and Bron takes that as her cue to leave. After an awkward little curtsy, Bron walks swiftly from the Teyrna’s room.

The corridors of Highever castle are bustling with activity, servants hurrying with platters of food and drink, or with arms laden with gifts and flowers, and Bron weaves quickly between the people, eager to stay out of their way. It seems like an awful lot of effort, she thinks, and probably an exorbitant amount of money, just to entertain a group of haughty nobles.

It’s late in the evening, and Bron is keen to get home to check on her family, but when she passes a wide doorway leading to the castle’s grand hall, she comes to a sudden and unexpected halt. Music is spilling into the corridor, something lively and lilting and _beautiful_ , and the air smells enticingly of spices. She knows she should carry on and hurry home but instead she feels the unmistakable tug of curiosity pulling her toward the hall, and she soon finds herself poking her head around the doorway – _just to take a look_.

Bron had never visited the old Highever castle before it had burned down during the Blight, but she’d heard that the Teyrn’s new castle was far grander than its predecessor. In fact there are some who claim it is one of the grandest castles in all of Ferelden. As she gazes up at the high, vaulted ceiling of the castle’s central hall, its tall windows and carved pillars, Bron must concede that they are probably right.

Lady Cousland may still be getting ready but the hall is already teaming with noble guests (Maker forbid the Teyrna be on time for her own party) and Bron can’t help but stare at the gaudy colours of the nobles’ attire, the glittering lanterns suspended above the hall like stars and the plates of succulent food.

Bron is a practical woman, coming from a long, _proud_ line of practical women. Sensible, _grounded_ women who had steered their families through tough times, acted as pillars of strength for their communities. Her mother had taught her to always be economical, logical, _pragmatic_. She should never be wasteful, never be boastful, never indulge in activities that lacked clear objectives. And most of all, she should never be vain. Vanity was a failing of the idle, a distraction for the dim-witted. Of course she should always be clean and tidy – her mother had often stressed the importance of being… _presentable_. But she should _never_ indulge in frippery.

And yet, looking out across the ballroom, at the patterned silks and the twinkling lights, Bron can’t help but think that, well, some of that frippery looks rather… _pretty_.

She knows that she should leave at once, head home to check on her father and brothers. But as she stands in the doorway to the hall, she can almost _feel_ the music of the orchestra and the smells of the buffet trying to entice her forward, as if they were real, physical forces pulling her into the hall. Would it really be too bad if she… stayed?

Surely her family could keep themselves out of trouble for one evening? And surely no one would notice one more addition to the merriment? And maybe the Hero of Ferelden would even be in attendance! She is the Teyrn’s sister after all. What an extraordinary encounter that would be; to meet the hero who defeated the Archdemon and saved all of Thedas!

_Just a few hours_ , she reasons to herself, she’ll stay for _just a few hours_.

With a pleased smile on her face, she ducks into a small antechamber next to the hall. There’s a small side-table in the corner of the room, covered with a long, richly embroidered tablecloth, and Bron decides it’s the perfect place to stash her pack. As she crouches down to hide her bag, she catches sight of herself in a meticulously polished bronze plate atop the table and – well – she’s not the most _impressive_ sight.

She always wears her finest dress for visits to Highever castle, the one usually reserved for weddings and Chantry festival days, and while she thinks it’s pretty and flattering, it is a little… _plain_.

Struck with sudden inspiration, she delves into her pack to pull out a few of the pieces of jewellery that had proven not to the Teyrna’s tastes. Bron had made each piece after all, why shouldn’t she be the one to wear them for once?

She slips a wide golden cuff around one wrist, then drapes a long chain of gold and glass beads around her waist. Finally, she pulls the dragon tiara free from its padded case and places it gently, almost reverently, on her own head. There’s a frisson of excitement when she catches sight of her reflection again; she looks… beautiful, _regal_.

She feels a bit silly, bubbling with a childish giddiness that she thought she’d long outgrown. But when she stands, she finds she’s standing a little straighter, a little prouder, the weight of the tiara forcing her to hold her head a little higher. She certainly doesn’t feel like a child; she feels like a queen.

Her hands sweep over the emerald green of her dress, smoothing out the creases, and then, with a smug smile firmly in place, she pulls herself to her full height and steps confidently out into the hall.

It’s easy to feel swept away with the festivities, with the swell of the music and the ebb and flow of the crowd, and though she’s a stranger here, she’s surprised that she doesn’t feel more out of place.

She helps herself to a couple of glasses of wine, something sharp and bright that leaves a pleasant hum at the back of her head, then snatches a few tarts from the buffet table to nibble on while watching the guests as they dance. The dance floor is a blur of movement, a kaleidoscope of pattern and colour, of furs and velvets, jewels and gold. It’s a mesmerising display of opulence, and while she knows she should be disapproving, she just can’t seem to muster the condemnation.

“And _what_ do we have here?” comes a voice from over her shoulder and the sudden intrusion causes Bron to startle. But the voice sounds familiar, soft and distinctly Orlesian, and Bron’s already smiling when she turns to face her old friend.

“Well, Leliana, you always make these parties sound like such fun – I thought I would sneak in and see for myself.”

Leliana smiles at her, the kind of roguish grin that makes you feel like you’re in on some marvellous secret, and Bron can’t help but smile broadly in return.

Leliana looks stunning of course, a fitted gown of midnight blue accentuating her pale skin and red hair, and she holds herself with the kind of effortless elegance that Bron knows she will never be able to emulate.

“And is it everything you thought it would be?” Leliana asks, brows wagging mischievously.

Bron shrugs. “I suppose.”

“Ah…” Leliana says with a slow nod, “I imagine you think all of this is a… vulgar display of frippery? A wasteful indulgence for the silly and the vain?”

Bron blushes a little, her mother’s exhortations sounding silly coming from Leliana’s mouth.

“Something like that,” Bron replies curtly.

Leliana lets out a quiet sigh as she shakes her head, and despite their many years of acquaintance, Bron finds herself unable to read Leliana’s expression. Is it disapproval? Maybe disappointment? Bron doesn’t like it either way.

“You are just like your mother,” she says, and though Bron has always considered such a statement to be a compliment, it’s clear from Leliana’s tone that she does not mean it as one.

Her unreadable expression soon twists into something more playful and with a conspiratorial little smile, Leliana links her arm with Bron’s and leads her through the twisting crowds of the hall.

When the women are at the centre of the room, the dancers spinning frantically around them, Leliana leans closer to Bron. “Tell me what you see,” she instructs.

Bron gets the distinct feeling that she’s being tested, which isn’t actually an unusual feeling when in Leliana’s company. Bron had never understood why but Leliana had always seemed determined to push her, challenge her. Whenever Leliana had visited her father’s forge, she’d always made the time to spar with her, teach her politics and history, even a smattering of Orlesian phrases, and if Bron had ever said anything with which Leliana disagreed, she would always question Bron, again and again, forcing her to reconsider her assumptions. But while Bron is certainly used to being tested by Leliana, this time she gets the impression that it’s… _important_.

Bron looks around the room, thoughtfully observing the revellers in the hall, from the exuberant nobles to the scurrying servants. She’s unsure what answer Leliana is expecting, what constitutes a right answer, but she’s keen not to disappoint her mentor.

“Well I believe the gentleman in the red doublet is attempting to court the woman with the feather headdress. He’s been trailing after her all evening. And while the woman in the gold and green arrived with the elderly gentleman over there, she keeps slipping out of the hall with the young man in the black leather. I think they’re having an affair.”

“It could be perfectly innocent,” Leliana comments, though her tone lacks conviction, “maybe they’re just chatting.”

Bron snorts inelegantly, “his waistcoat is buttoned up incorrectly – it didn’t look like that earlier in the evening.”

Leliana nods with a small smile. Bron’s not sure what that means. Did she do it right?

“Oh, and that waiter has been stashing cutlery all evening,” Bron adds with a nod toward the corner of the room, where a member of the waiting staff is trying to subtly slide a silver jam knife into his shirt sleeve.

Leliana chuckles softly.

“Impressive,” says Leliana, and Bron feels relief wash over her until Leliana adds, “is that all?”

Bron doesn’t know how to respond to that, doesn’t know what to say that will satisfy Leliana’s question. So instead she just frowns petulantly.

“You’ve always been observant, excellent attention to detail,” explains Leliana, “but there’s still so much you don’t see. It’s a _party_ , Bron, a communal celebration of the end of the blight. You’ve picked out the individuals, their foibles and their faults, but what about the big picture? There is meaning in shared experiences, there is _power_ in ritualised social events.”

Bron’s brows pinch quizzically. “I don’t understand.”

“I know you don’t, sweetpea,” she says with an affectionate squeeze of Bron’s arm, “but what I’m trying to tell you… there is _so much more_ going on in this room that just gaudy frippery.”

Bron thinks she understands but at the same time… she really doesn’t. Leliana claims that there is meaning to be found in this exuberant tumble of bodies, in this ostentatious spectacle of consumption and revelry, but all Bron can see is impractical waste. She’ll concede that it’s _appealing_ – an enticing spectacle for someone such as Bron who is used to a far plainer existence. But is it meaningful?

Leliana leads Bron out of the crowded hall and into an adjoining room, a quiet gallery with tall windows overlooking the gardens, and Bron finds herself grateful for the calm. Finally coming to a pause, Leliana turns to face Bron, holding her gaze with a look of such intensity that Bron feels mildly uncomfortable.

“I have a proposition for you,” Leliana says at last and she seems… excited? Her eyes gleaming and smile beaming. “Why don’t you _come with me_? Back to Orlais?”  
  
“What?!” Bron barks with surprise, “why would I go to Orlais?”

“Work with me. Help me serve the Divine," Leliana entreats, stepping closer. "Ever since I met you as a child, Bron, I could tell that you were special, _smart_. And over the years I've seen you grow into a remarkably capable young woman. Now it's time to put your considerable skills to achieve something… something _greater_ than what awaits you here in Highever.”

Bron is speechless. Leave her home? Leave Ferelden? Who will look after her family if she leaves? Her brothers are good men, hard-working and well-meaning, but they are… _rowdy_ , and they tend to bring out the worst in each other, always trying to outdo each other with their ridiculous antics. And her father had never been able to control them (had never felt particularly inclined to do so); that had always been mother’s job before she’d died.

And her _father_ , what of him? He is a talented blacksmith, an incredible craftsman, able to achieve extraordinary things when he puts his mind to them. But he’s fickle, flighty, easily distracted by things that are pretty, things that are fun. And of course he drinks too much. Never to grotesque excess but certainly too much for someone whose capacity for sensible decision-making is already limited. Without Bron to keep him in line, how would he support the family?

“I can’t-” she begins, and Leliana immediately interrupts her with a wave of her hand.

“Don’t answer now – think about it,” she says, fixing her with a severe stare, “but promise me you’ll _really_ think about it.”

Bron nods, and not just because she knows that it’s what Leliana wants – it is genuinely a tempting offer. While she would never admit it out loud, Bron has always wanted to see the world outside of Highever, to see the places that her father had always talked about in his silly stories.

But Bron has responsibilities, important responsibilities to tend to, and it just wouldn’t be practical to throw everything aside for the sake of adventure.

“Your mother was a remarkable woman,” Leliana continues, clearly deciding that more persuasion is required, “too cold for my tastes, but certainly a woman of remarkable intelligence and strength. And I know that you want to emulate her, I know that you feel like you have to take her place now that she’s gone. But her life doesn’t have to be _your_ life, Bron.”

Leliana knows her too well, knows exactly what insecurities to prod, and Bron almost resents how transparently Leliana is trying to manipulate her. But then – Leliana _does_ have a point. Her mother had indeed been a remarkable woman, intelligent and formidable, a force of nature that no one could subdue, and yet she’d lived her whole life in the same town, married to a silly man for whom she had little respect. And her mother had expected the same for her, a sensible marriage to a reasonable man who would give Bron a stable, secure life.

The mere thought of it made Bron want to scream.

She’d never understood why her mother had put so much time and effort into educating her, molding her into a strong, competent women in her image, if she was just going to burden her with some small, confining existence.

Bron knows she is destined for something _greater_.

“Come with me,” trills Leliana in a lilting sing-song voice, tugging Bron by the arm back toward the great hall and the dancing throngs, “I’ll teach you how to dance!”

“I know how to dance!” Bron snaps back indignantly.

“You know how to dance like a Ferelden, let me teach you how to dance like an Orlesian!”

Bron doesn’t really know what it means to ‘dance like an Orlesian’ but, based on her sturdy Ferelden upbringing, she suspects it’s probably a bad thing. But then she’ll need to know the right moves when she follows Leliana to Orlais.

_If_ , her mind corrects, _not when_. She hasn’t made her mind up yet.

But if she _did_ go?

Well, maybe it won’t stop at Orlais! Maybe she’ll travel across all of Thedas, from Mont-de-Glace to the shores of the Rialto Bay. At the very least, she’ll get to meet the Divine! See first-hand how the Game is played. She’ll see the glassy waters of Lake Celestine, walk the sun-drenched walnut groves of the Ylenn Basin.

This could be the first step into a far larger world, the first step toward a far grander existence. If she leaves Ferelden, well, _who knows_ how far she’ll go?

* * *

**9:41 Dragon Age**

The wagon gives a sudden jerk, the wheel hitting a large stone no doubt, and Alistair tenses his whole body to keep it still against the tossing and pitching. Bron is asleep beside him, body pressed flush against his in the cramped confines of the wagon, and Alistair is determined to let her sleep, even with the violent juddering of the wagon.

Her head is resting against his shoulder, her hand bunched in the fabric of his sleeve, and it’s a peculiar intimacy with a woman who values personal space more than most. He knows that she would never have ventured this close had she been awake, probably wouldn’t have even sat next to him in the first place had the wagon not been so stuffed full of crates.

But she’s clearly exhausted, having dropped off almost the moment they’d left the market town at Herne Hill, and if Alistair can give her a few precious moments of sleep, well then he’ll sit as still as he can manage and let her rest.

Occasionally she lets out a quiet snuffle, or a faint groan, and her grip on his sleeve seems to be getting tighter and tighter, like she’s desperately holding on to something she’s afraid to lose. On second thought, maybe he _should_ wake her; she doesn’t seem to be having particularly pleasant dreams.

The wagon suddenly veers around a corner and the movement causes a box to slip from its place and smack against the floor of the wagon with a sharp thud. Bron immediately jerks upright, her eyes wide with shock, and her hand instinctively reaching for where her rapier should be attached to her belt had she not removed the weapon and propped it against her pack on the floor before she’d fallen asleep.

Her head turns frantically to scan the inside of the wagon, her face more panicked than he would expect, and Alistair wonders for a moment whether she’s forgotten where they are. Then she looks at Alistair, curled up on the wagon floor beside her, and it must have dawned on her what she’d been doing while she was asleep because an uncharacteristic blush suddenly stains her cheeks and she ducks her head to avoid making eye contact with him.

“I’m… uh… sorry about-” she gestures vaguely at his shoulder.

“It’s all right,” he says with a tiny smirk that would probably piss her off were she to actually look at him, “you were asleep.”

“Right… yes…” she says, settling beside him once more, although this time she’s left a good few inches between his shoulder and hers, an impressive feat in the cramped confines of the wagon. She must be pressed tight against the crates to allow that small sliver of space between them.

“Are we there yet?” she asks after a long pause that feels more tense than Alistair would have expected given that Alistair thought they were passed such awkwardness. They’d been travelling together for six weeks now and had long since fallen into an easy camaraderie. This sudden uneasiness between them feels… _wrong_.

“No, we’re only a few hours outside Herne Hill, it’s at least another six to Crestwood.”

She sighs as she fidgets uncomfortably next to him, clearly dissatisfied with his answer.

“This is too slow; we’re going to miss our rendezvous with Hawke” she grouses, “the horses would have been faster.”

“The horses are exhausted, they need a break from carrying us. This is better,” he says, gesturing to the wagon around them. “Besides, Hawke will wait.”

It had only been a few days since they’d received Hawke’s letter requesting a rendezvous, and while he shares Bron’s eagerness to reach Hawke as soon as possible, it would be no use to push the horses to the point of exhaustion and uselessness.

She pulls her features into an exaggerated grimace, the kind of face which suggests that she knows he’s right but is not happy about it.

They sit in silence, which in itself is not unusual for the two of them, but this one feels… different, _strained_. Alistair has come to recognise the nuances between Bron’s different silences and he knows that this is not the good kind of silence. It’s a tense kind of silence, cold rather than comfortable, and he can tell from the tightness of her expression that something is bothering her.

“Want to talk about it?” he finally ventures, knowing that her answer is probably no but thinking he should ask anyway.

“Talk about what?”

“Whatever’s bothering you.”

“Nothing’s bothering me.”

“You’re lying.”

Her head jerks to the side to glare at him, clearly resenting the accusation, and Alistair straightens his posture in response, staring her down. Someone else might wither under one of Bron’s glares but Alistair knows that, for once, he’s right, and he won’t let Bron get away with lying to him.

Finally Bron relents under his stare and there’s an odd crumpling in her posture, her shoulders curling inward, her head bowing forward as if to hide from him.

“I was having a… vivid dream,” she confesses, and he can’t help but notice that she’s picking at her fingernails, a nervous gesture that does not suit her.

He’s not sure whether he should push further – Bron relents personal information with great reluctance – but he figures he’s already got her to confess one thing, might as well see what else he can glean. Besides, confession is good for the soul.

“About what?” he asks.

She sighs, rumbling with frustration, and he’s sure that this time she really will tell him to sod off. But instead she raises her head and finally looks at him, and she looks… lost, perhaps? Guilty? It’s not an expression he’s seen Bron wear before and it’s hard to pin down exactly what it means.

“Leliana,” she says at last, and that’s absolutely not what Alistair was expecting her to say, “I was remembering the evening that she recruited me, when she asked me to come with her to Orlais. I was… _so excited_. Flattered as well, that she thought my skills were sufficient, but mainly excited. And for some reason – I don’t know why – I pretended that I wasn’t.”

She pauses, looks around, as if lost for words and hoping to find an explanation scrawled along the wagon’s walls.

“And I was _always_ like that,” she continues, “Leliana showed me such amazing things, she taught me so much, and I always acted like it was… _an inconvenience_ , some silly indulgence distracting me from more serious tasks. I just… I don’t know why I did that.”

“You take things seriously – there’s nothing wrong with that,” he insists, “you’re just… dedicated.”

“She was like family. I _loved_ her… and I don’t think I ever told her how thankful I was for… everything.”

Alistair had always found Bron’s customary façade of calm indifference supremely irritating – but now, confronted with such raw regret in her eyes, Alistair feels somewhat overwhelmed. He’s just not sure what to say.

“She knew,” he insists, “Leliana was the most perceptive person I have ever met. _She knew_.”

Bron smiles at that, and it’s a small, brittle thing, but it’s a start and Alistair feels immense relief at the sight.

“I’m sorry,” she says, rubbing at her eyes with the heels of her hands.

“For what? Having feelings?”

“Yeah,” she says with a dry chuckle, “something like that.”

“You know, you’re allowed to mourn,” he says, gently bumping her shoulder with his own. She gives him a quizzical look, and he’s not sure whether it’s a silent reprimand for the unsolicited physical contact or a dismissal of what she probably considers preposterous advice. “You’ve experienced a huge loss, you’re _allowed_ to be sad about it.”

“I _did_ mourn,” she says, unexpectedly curt, “I-I… _cried_ in your arms, for fuck’s sake!”

“For barely a few minutes!” he barks back, “then you were back to business as usual. It was like nothing had happened! No – I mean – you need to mourn _properly_.”

“And what was I _supposed_ to do?!” she cries.

“I don’t know! Show some normal human emotions – yelling, crying! Maybe break something?!”

“Break something? That doesn’t seem like a sensible way of dealing with grief.”

“I didn’t say it was sensible! But sometimes it’s necessary – it’s cathartic!”

“Fine!” she snaps before lunging forward to rummage around in her nearby pack. After a moment of furious rifling, she pulls out a pencil and she waggles it in front his eyes before snapping it in half and throwing the two pieces to the floor of the wagon with a dramatic flourish of her hands.

“Are you happy now?!” she shouts, “I’ve committed a pointless act of destruction – am I mourning to your satisfaction now?”

She’s looking at him sternly, brows drawn low, but there’s a childishness to her scowl, her bottom lip pushing forward just a little too far, that makes her look almost comical.

He’s suddenly struck with the ridiculousness of their situation, the two of them squished together in the back of a wagon, inexplicably arguing, perpetrating senseless acts of violence against innocent stationary. And before he can stop himself, Alistair starts laughing.

It’s a dry chuckle at first – but then it builds and builds until it’s a loud bellow, cheery and rumbling, filling the whole wagon with sound. And he knows that Bron’ll be angry, that she’ll assume he’s laughing _at_ her, but he’s just too overwhelmed with the absurdity of this whole argument to stop.

Bron’s scowl fades away to make room for confusion, clearly puzzled by Alistair’s reaction, but while he expects her to reprimand him, instead a small, sharp laugh is wrenched from her mouth. She looks surprised at first, her hands rushing to her mouth as if she can push the sound back again, but then she too finds herself overtaken with loud, bubbling laughter.

For a while they just sit and laugh, the tension between them bleeding away, and when the laughter finally subsides, Alistair can still feel the warmth in his skin and the grin tugging at his cheeks. Beside him, Bron’s shoulders are still shaking with amusement as she tries to subtly swipe tears away from her eyes.

“Do you feel… better?” he ventures cautiously, gesturing toward the sad pencil rattling in pieces against the wooden boards.

“Not particularly,” she replies with a sniff, “that pencil was expensive.”

And then she giggles, low and dirty, and there’s only a brief pause before Alistair has joined in with his own vulgar giggling and soon the two of them are once again in fits of laughter. He feels like a child. Not that his childhood was particularly filled with rambunctious laughter, but there’s something distinctly juvenile about this kind of uncontrollable, unbridled amusement.

When they finally pull themselves to their senses, he notices that Bron is no longer straining to keep a cordial space between them but is instead resting comfortably against his side, her body flush to his. He doesn’t know why but he feels like this is significant.

“I’m sorry,” he finally ventures, “we all mourn in our own way. If you don’t want to talk… well, that’s fine with me.”

“I’m not good at…” she pauses, then shrugs before adding, “talking,”

There’s another long silence between them, although Alistair is relieved to find that this is one of her contented silences.

“Have I ever told you about Duncan?” he asks, though he knows he hasn’t. He hasn’t talked about Duncan to anyone, not since Elissa during the Blight. Not even Hawke, and she was the closest friend he’d had since leaving Ferelden for his exile.

And so he tells Bron _everything_.

He tells her about his childhood as an unwanted royal bastard, about his time with the wardens, about Loghain’s betrayal and fighting alongside the Hero of Ferelden during the Blight.

And it’s odd how much it still hurts to talk about his old mentor, the one person who had ever really thought Alistair would amount to anything, and as he tells Bron about his loss, he realises just how much the wound still smarts even after all this time.

He recognises now how hypocritical it was for him to chastise Bron for failing to address her grief when he is still so burdened with his own.

As he talks, he is surprised to feel Bron leaning into him. And this time, when she rests her head against his shoulder and curls her fingers into the fabric of his sleeve, it’s not because she’s fallen asleep but because she’s trying to comfort him. It’s a touching gesture from someone who guards their personal space so zealously and Alistair knows her well enough to understand the significance behind such a seemingly simple act.

If Bron doesn’t know how to talk about her grief, how to open up to a friend, well then he’ll just have to show her how. And maybe, in the process, he can finally start to heal the wounds he’s gained from a lifetime of loss and disappointment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	8. Let it Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello there, new Point of View character!
> 
> In this chapter, Alistair and Bron get some help from an old friend and then Bron hears the best news she has ever, ever received.

The dim fire casts odd shapes along the cave walls, dark phantoms that dance ghoulishly against the cragged walls. Hawke jabs at the burning logs with a stick, less to coax the flames and more to just stave off boredom. She’s been in Crestwood for several days already, sitting alone in this cave for far too many hours to count, and she is growing restless.

She’s not surprised that Alistair has been delayed in reaching her; it’s not easy to travel long distances these days without becoming embroiled in some sort of violent predicament. If you’re lucky, you might avoid the fighting between the mages and Templars, but then you’ve still got the rifts to worry about, spitting demons throughout Thedas, not to mention your standard, run-of-the-mill bandits trying to take advantage of the chaos for their own, personal gain. 

But while Hawke can understand Alistair’s delay, well, it’s still _bloody annoying_.

Hawke wishes she’d stayed in the tavern in the village. She could be nestled in a deep armchair right now, feet propped up next to a roaring fireplace, a tankard of beer in hand. But then she’s an exiled Champion, and Alistair’s an exiled Warden, and sitting merrily in an oft-frequented tavern isn’t particularly inconspicuous.

Besides – the village had creeped her out when she’d passed through, which is quite an achievement considering she’s spent the best part of the last decade living in Kirkwall, a veritable cornucopia of the crazy and the off-putting. But then there is something particularly unsettling about an inexplicable undead uprising, and not even her years in Kirkwall had prepared her for the never ending waves of shuffling corpses. She had been happy to keep her visit as short as possible, grabbing only a few essential supplies before passing through to her current hideaway.

Hawke had figured that the abandoned mines around Crestwood would make the ideal spot for her rendezvous with Alistair. Secluded, remote – the average traveller wouldn’t even know they were there had they just been passing through. Hawke only knows they exist thanks to her time living in the Old Crestwood village as a child, long before the Blight. She and Bethany would come to the mines to play with their magic, conjuring butterflies made from fire, forging flowers out of ice, far from the prying eyes of villagers who might bring them to the attention of the Chantry.

She’d been sad to leave the place behind, sad to leave the rolling plains of green, the sparkling waters of the lake. But her father had decided that they’d been in one place too long and no one dared tempt fate when the Templars were concerned.

Hawke had never been a particularly nostalgic person but she’d been disappointed to learn upon her return to Crestwood that her old home was now submerged below the lake’s waters, another victim to the Blight. It had been a happy home and it had deserved a better fate.

Without anything better to do, she takes a small leather-bound folio out of her pack and pulls out the letters she’s received from Alistair over the months. It’s quite a thick pile now and she rifles swiftly through them in search of the one she wants. The first few letters had been about her brother, and she’d been relieved to find that Carver was not the only warden suffering from an alarmingly early onset of the Calling (although, in all honesty, Alistair’s letters had both calmed and frightened her – it was one thing to know that her brother was not alone, it was quite another to fear that something truly, _terribly_ wrong was afoot with the whole Order). Then there’s the letter where he’d told her that he’d given up on finding the wardens, followed almost immediately with a letter saying essentially, ‘whoops! Just kidding – I’m still on the whole warden hunt thing.’

Finally she finds the most recent letters he’d sent (and she really should think about arranging these letters into some sort of chronological order like a sensible person), and these are by far the most intriguing. Alistair and his Inquisition buddy had seemingly broken into the warden stronghold in Amaranthine and stolen a number of informative documents, an impressive feat.

But while Alistair had been excited to tell her about the information they’d uncovered, he’d been unwilling to tell her everything via letter, for fear that their correspondence may be intercepted en route. And so she’d suggested they meet at Crestwood to discuss the information he’d retrieved and, more importantly, what they would do with it.

When she’d sent her reply suggesting they meet, she hadn’t really known what would happen next. They were, after all, just two exiles and a wayward Inquisition agent trying to find the wardens and – then what? She’d been so determined to find the wardens and uncover the secrets behind what was afflicting her brother that she hadn’t really stopped to think about what would happen next. Once she’d found the wardens, would she force them to help her brother? Would they even be able to help?

But then she’d received a letter from Varric, possibly the most beautiful, magnificent, _wonderful_ letter she had ever received in her entire life, and everything had suddenly become a great deal clearer. She would meet with Alistair, they’d collate their intelligence, and then they’d go meet Varric at Skyhold like he’d requested in his letter and they would present their findings to the Inquisition.

Let the grand and mighty Inquisition figure out what to do next.

As she’s reading through Alistair’s letter and the accompanying scrawled notes, Hawke hears a sound echoing down the tunnel leading to her hiding spot.

_Finally_ , she thinks, _Alistair’s arrived_.

_Or… it could be someone else_.

She reaches down to grab her staff where it lies at her feet; lets heat pool into her palms. She doesn’t want to summon fire quite yet, poor Alistair doesn’t deserve a fireball to the face, but she wants to have it at the ready just in case.

Given Hawke’s luck in the past, it’s almost certainly some unholy abomination come to maul her to death and feast on her insides, or Templars on the search for errant apostates. She’s not quite sure which she’d rather face.

Well – looking on the bright side – Hawke is cold and stiff from sitting too long, and setting something on fire seems like an _awful_ lot of fun right now.

_Let them come_.

* * *

Bron holds the sides of her hood to keep it in place, fighting vainly against the lashing wind and unrelenting rain. Her skin stings from the cold and the damp, and there’s so much water puddled at the bottom of her boots that they squelch uncomfortably with every step. But there’s no point dwelling on her discomfort; fixating on it won’t make it go away. So instead she focuses on Alistair’s back just ahead of her and tries not to trip in the mud.

She had wanted to stop the night at the tavern in the nearby village and come find Hawke in the morning. They could have rested from the long journey and had something warm and filling to eat before venturing out into Crestwood. It’s not that Bron is particularly concerned with her comfort, she’s certainly been in her fair share of uncomfortable situations before, but tiredness and hunger makes people clumsy, and the storm is making it harder to maintain awareness of their situation. Cloaked by darkness and surrounded by a thick curtain of rain, she can barely see more than a few feet in front of her, let alone spot any approaching hostiles.

And given what a sorry state Crestwood seems to be in, with the dead brought to their feet once more (and since when did the rifts have the power to raise the dead?), Bron would rather be careful than dead.

But Alistair had been keen to find Hawke as soon as possible and he’d managed to persuade her to leave the village as soon as they’d arrived to make their way toward the abandoned mines.

“This way,” Alistair calls back to her as he winds through the rocky landscape and Bron doesn’t understand how he can be so… _chipper_. He’s moving swiftly, eagerly, practically _bouncing_ as he leads the way.

He’s in a good mood, despite the unforgiving rain, and his excitement at seeing Hawke is palpable. Bron’s never seen him this enthused – not since she returned from Vigil’s Keep with a pack full of stolen documents. If he wants to hurry on through the storm to meet Hawke, well then Bron doesn’t see the harm in it.

Suddenly Alistair stops, one hand raised while the other moves to hover over the hilt of his sword. 

“What is it?” Bron asks when she’s caught up with him.

“I can sense… wardens.”

“Wardens?” she asks, voice tinged with confusion, “what are they doing out here?”

Nothing about their research had suggested that the wardens had an interest in the goings-on in Crestwood. The rift in the lake and the hoards of the undead may be deeply troubling but hardly something the wardens can counter. It is more a job for, well, the Inquisition. But with the Inquisition’s demise, Bron isn’t sure _who_ will come to Crestwood’s aide.

Alistair doesn’t respond to her question, either because he didn’t hear her over the roar of the downpour or because he doesn’t care to answer, but draws his sword instead. Bron does likewise, pulling her rapier from its sheathe at her hip, and though she can’t see or hear anyone approaching, she trusts Alistair’s instinct.

“Put your weapons down and no one gets hurt,” comes a voice from the darkness, and Bron can feel rather than see Alistair tense beside her.

Figures step forward from the darkness, six of them, heavily armoured in the distinctive blue and silverite uniform of the wardens. Their weapons are drawn, swords and arrows all fixed on where Alistair and Bron are standing.

“If you don’t mind, I think I’ll keep hold of mine,” Alistair retorts.

“What is your business, wardens?” Bron asks, trying to sound as pleasant and non-threatening as possible, “we are but simple travellers on our way to West Hill.”

“He’s the warden,” says one of the wardens, gesturing his weapon toward Alistair.

“ _Ex_ -warden,” Alistair retorts, and Bron’s not sure that his little clarification is really going to help matters.

“We’ve got orders to bring him with us,” says another warden, “you’ve stolen from the wardens and acting Warden-Commander Howe wants to know why.”

“Stolen? _Us_?” says Bron with poorly feigned innocence, “you must have the wrong people.”

“There’s no mistake,” says the warden, “we sensed your arrival in Amaranthine and then sensed your departure at the same time as it was discovered that a number of important documents were missing from Vigil’s Keep. It can’t be a coincidence. Now, we’ve been tracking you for some time – why not just make it easier on everyone and come without a fuss.”

The wardens move toward Alistair and Bron falls into a fighting stance, eyes narrowed in warning at the intruders.

“Our fight’s not with you, miss,” says another one of the wardens, a small archer with painfully young eyes, “just leave your friend to us and no-one’ll get hurt.” 

“You lay one hand on him and I’ll gut you where you stand and fashion a whimsical hat from your entrails,” Bron spits, leaning forward threateningly.

She knows they’re outnumbered. And while she has confidence in their abilities, these are _wardens_ , not some common bandits. She hopes that some pointed bravado on her part might be enough to unnerve them. She knows that they’re not going to just _leave them alone_ , a confrontation now seems almost inevitable, but she hopes that she can at least throw them off balance.

Alistair lets out a snort of laughter at Bron’s somewhat colourful insult, but while his posture is still relaxed, clearly still hoping for a peaceful resolution to this stand-off and not wanting to be overtly aggressive, Bron can tell that his body is tense, ready to jump to action when required.

“Fuck this,” snarls the warden, “we won’t be threatened by _petty thieves_.”

He turns to gesture to his men, barking orders, “kill the woman, we take the warden alive.”

A warden immediately lunges toward Bron and she ducks, turning on her heels as she bends under the arc of his swing. When she pulls herself upright again, she’s behind the warden and she wastes no time in stabbing the tip of her rapier into the man’s unarmoured armpit, driving her blade upward through his torso. He falls to his knees without even a scream, and her bloodied rapier comes free from his body with a slick slurp as his body slumps forward into the mud.

She has only a brief moment to catch sight of Alistair, clashing swords with another warden, before she has to duck from another approaching blow, a spiked mace that barely misses her by a few inches. The mace’s owner towers above Bron, a hulking monolith of a man who snarls ferociously as he swings his weapon again and again. Bron evades each strike, dancing and wheeling around each wide swipe of the mace, until her ankle twists in the mud and she’s sent tumbling to the ground.

_Shit_.

Sprawled on her back, startled by her sudden introduction to the ground, Bron watches with growing alarm as the towering warden steps forward with a grin on his face, lifting his mace in preparation for one final blow.

With his mace raised, Bron jabs forward with her rapier, pushing the sharp, narrow edge of her blade between the plates of his armoured boot and into the soft, vulnerable flesh of his foot. She doubts it’s a particularly serious wound but it’s enough to make him yelp and falter in his footing, and it gives Bron enough time to roll to the side and clamber to her feet.

She knows it won’t be long until the warden is back on her, mace in hand, but Bron doesn’t even have time to think about his next assault when an arrow slings passed her head, so close that she can feel the air vibrate against her cheek.

Looking over her shoulder, she can see the same young archer that spoke earlier. His hands are shaking, either from the cold or from fear, and he’s clearly struggling to take effective aim. But sooner or later he’s going to land a hit and Bron will be in trouble; her leather armour is designed for flexibility and affords only minimal protection.

With the archer at her back and the warden with his mace now stalking toward her front, Bron has barely a second to decide her next move. Her usual tactic would be to deal with the archer first, then tackle the larger, but slower, threat. But the archer is a novice, his aim poor, and the spiked mace probably poses a far more immediate danger.

Bron raises her rapier and prepares to charge the towering warden but before she has the chance, a ball of flame appears from the darkness, tearing through air and smashing into his side. He screams as he is enveloped in flames and his mace thumps to the ground as he falls, limbs flailing in a poor attempt to smother the burning.

“Apostate!” comes a scream from one of the remaining wardens, and then all attention is drawn to the black-haired woman hurtling down a nearby slope with flames dancing in her hands. 

She creates a wall of fire around Alistair, forcing his attackers to step back, then peppers the air with glowing fireballs, the rain crackling and sizzling when it hits the flames. The wardens scatter, some of them falling amidst mighty conflagrations of orange and white while the others scramble over the rocks and mud, calling desperately for a retreat.

When Bron looks over her shoulder to watch them go, she notices that the young archer is still standing there, frozen in place with his bow trembling uselessly in his hands.

“That’s your cue to run,” Bron informs him with a warning scowl.

“Yes, thank you ma’am,” he replies before turning and running, his bow falling from his grip and lying forgotten in the mud as he scuttles away.

With their threat seemingly gone, Bron looks toward Alistair to check that he’s unscathed and finds him pulling their unknown saviour into a tight hug.

“Hawke!” he bellows by way of a greeting.

_Ah, so not such an unknown saviour after all_.

In fact, probably the most infamous person in all of Thedas.

Hawke immediately laughs, a loud, easy sound that somehow radiates warmth despite the incessantly driving rain. “It’s good to see you too,” she says, and Bron can see her grinning happily over Alistair’s shoulder. 

When Alistair lets her go, he steps aside and gestures toward Bron with an enthusiasm that makes her involuntarily step back a tiny bit.

“ _This_ is Bron,” Alistair says with surprising excitement, hands outstretched like he’s presenting her to Hawke as some sort of impressive gift.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Bron says with an awkward little nod, “and… ugh… thank you, for your help.”

Hawke starts walking briskly toward her, grinning with the kind of overt friendliness that fills Bron with terror.

_Oh Maker, is she going for a hug?_

Instead of hugging her, Hawke claps her heartily on the shoulders, grinning broadly. Bron tries not to flinch at the physical contact, has to fight the urge not to brush away her hands from where they now rest amiably on her shoulders. Because _this is Hawke_ , and she wants Hawke to like her (and she’d never been the kind of person that people instantly liked). This is the Champion of Kirkwall, who bested the Arishok in one-on-one combat, who defeated a marauding high-dragon, and, more importantly, this is _Alistair’s friend_ and she doesn’t want to upset Alistair by alienating her.

“It’s good to meet you too,” Hawke says, finally stepping back ( _praise Andraste_ ) and letting her hands drop to her sides, “Alistair has written about you in his letters. Sneaking into Vigil’s Keep? Impressive… if you’re as competent as Alistair says you are, I don’t know why you don’t just find the wardens without him.”

“I… um… keep him around to look pretty,” Bron responds, and she doesn’t think it’s a particularly good joke but it’s enough to make Hawke and Alistair chuckle dryly and Bron finds that she’s oddly pleased by this.

But then she’s also oddly pleased to learn that Alistair has _written about her_ in his letters.

_He thinks she’s competent._

And while some women might deem that somewhat faint praise, for Bron there is no higher compliment.

“Come on, let’s get out of the rain,” Hawke says, “it’s fucking freezing.”

Hawke waves at Alistair and Bron to follow, then leads them through the gloom to a tunnel entrance, not too far ahead.

Bron pushes back her hood and shakes the water from her cloak as she steps into the tunnel. She’s glad to be out of the rain at last, although the dank cave is barely much of an improvement. Sure she’s not actively being rained on anymore but water is pouring in rivulets down the cave walls and the air is heavy with damp. She pulls at the collar of her jacket while suppressing a pained hiss, the leather has been rubbing against her neck and she can feel the skin reddening.

Bron and Alistair follow behind Hawke through the winding rocky tunnel, their pace slow as they carefully tread over the wet, uneven ground. Then suddenly the tunnel opens out into a small cave, a crooked space carved out of the rock by long-dead miners. There’s a fire in the centre, and an abandoned pack against one wall, and Bron wonders how long Hawke has been waiting for them in this dank little corner of Ferelden.

“So the wardens clearly weren’t too happy about your little intrusion,” Hawke says as she peels off her sodden cloak, draping it across some abandoned mining apparatus before sitting down next to the fire.

“Evidently,” Alistair responds wryly, removing his own cloak before turning to Bron to take hers, the kind of chivalrous gesture to which Alistair is occasionally prone and which Bron finds supremely odd.

“They could sense Alistair’s presence in Amaranthine,” Bron says, strangely eager to explain that it’s not her fault, that there is nothing at fault with her sleuthing skills. “When their documents went missing, they assumed that he had something to do with it.”

“Ah yes,” drawls Hawke, “wardens and their magic powers.”

“We can also talk to woodland creatures,” Alistair quips sarcastically, earning him a small snicker from Hawke.

Bron settles down on the ground next to Hawke, thankfully dry this far into the cave, and leans toward the flames in an attempt to warm up. Alistair seems content to stalk around the edge of the cave, clearly still a little on edge after their encounter with the wardens, even if he’s trying to smile and joke and give the appearance of ease.

“So are you going to tell me about what you learnt from Vigil’s Keep or are you going to keep all the dark and dirty secrets to yourself?” asks Hawke, eyebrows waggling provocatively.

Alistair chuckles at Hawke’s words, finally stopping in his frantic circling, but then his laughter turns into a sigh and he seems oddly uncomfortable, fidgeting with his hands, and Bron doesn’t quite understand his reluctance to tell Hawke what they’ve uncovered.

“What’s wrong?” she prompts.

“I know it sounds stupid but it’s actually _hard_ talking to non-wardens about warden affairs. I know I’m not really the paragon of warden-y virtue anymore but the wardens value their secrecy and it seems like a… _betrayal_ to talk about these things.”

“The wardens just tried to kidnap you and kill your friend,” Hawke says matter-of-factly.

“I know,” he says, digging at the sand on the floor of the cave with the toe of his boots, “but when I was exiled from Ferelden, I was exiled by _Anora_ , not the wardens. And while I don’t really feel like a warden anymore, I don’t bear them ill-will either.”

“Alistair, we’re _helping_ the wardens,” Bron coaxes with unusual gentleness, “their secrets will be the end of them.”

“Right,” he replies with a nod, before finally joining Hawke and Bron on the floor around the fire, long legs bent awkwardly beneath him. “Shortly after receiving your first letter, Hawke – the one about your brother hearing the Calling – I started hearing rumours that the wardens were disappearing from across Thedas. At first I couldn’t figure out why but now, thanks to the documents Bron found in Vigil’s Keep, it’s clear that the two things are connected. It’s not just your brother that’s hearing the Calling, Hawke, it’s _all wardens_.”

“Maker!” Hawke exclaims, “ _every warden_ in Thedas is hearing the Calling?!”

Bron tries to hide her confusion but she can feel her brows furrowing. She knows that she should share Hawke’s incredulity, should be similarly shocked by Alistair’s revelation, but it’s hard to muster the astonishment when she doesn’t actually understand what the Calling _is_. Sure she’s read about it in the documents she brought back from Vigil’s Keep, but none of the documents really explain it. She’d assumed it was just some ritual, had been too proud to ask Alistair for an explanation, and hoped that she would come to understand in time.

It was clear now, though, that she wouldn’t be able to get away with her ignorance much longer.

“Um… what exactly _is_ the Calling?” Bron asks reluctantly, “I’d assumed it was some sort of ritual?”

“Well… wardens are tied to the Darkspawn,” Alistair explains, “we’re connected… and eventually that connection poisons you. You get… bad dreams. And then you start to hear the music. It _calls_ to you. Quiet at first, and then so loud you can’t bear it. At that point, you say farewell and go into the Deep Roads to die fighting.”

“So… wait… it’s some kind of – _call to death_?” Bron exclaims, a little more shrill than she would like.

“Yeah something like that.”

“And you… you’re hearing this… this Calling?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” he admits with a shrug, “when I’m talking or fighting, I can almost ignore it. But whenever things are quiet, I can hear it. It’s like a song you can’t get out of your head. It’s damned annoying, frankly.”

Wait – _what_?

Alistair’s _dying_?

And that little shit didn’t think to tell her!

Bron frowns at his flippancy. Alistair is _dying_ and all he has to say is that it’s ‘damned annoying’?

Before she can chastise him, Hawke interrupts. “So every Grey Warden in Thedas thinks that they’re dying?”

“It certainly seems like that,” Alistair says, “and that’s why they’re so terrified. If all the Wardens die, who will stop the next Blight?”

“So that’s why they’ve gone missing?” Hawke muses, “the wardens have buggered off somewhere to make some last, desperate attack on the Darkspawn?”

“We found orders from Warden-Commander Clarel instructing all wardens to report to her in Orlais. From what Bron and I have been able to piece together from various notes, Clarel is proposing some drastic things – blood magic and such – to prevent further Blights before the wardens die.”

“So the wardens think they’re going to die – and they think that blood magic is going to solve all their problems. But what _caused_ them to hear the Calling in the first place?”

“Corypheus” 

“I was afraid you were going to say that,” says Hawke, shaking her head mournfully. “I don’t understand though – I killed him!” she suddenly shouts, voice laced with frustration, “he was dead!”

“Not dead enough, I’m afraid,” says Alistair, “when you first wrote to me about Corypheus, to tell me that you’d killed him, I was… concerned that the matter was not resolved. You see, Archdemons do not just die from simple injury. Their souls can transfer to other Darkspawn, turning _them_ into an Archdemon. That’s why the wardens are so essential in stopping Blights. I feared Corypheus might have the same power but had no means to investigate further. From the information we stole from Vigil’s Keep, it’s now clear that Corypheus is indeed still alive.”

“It appears that Corypheus is bluffing the wardens with some sort of… fake Calling,” says Bron, “and the wardens are falling for it.”

“Surely they’re not… _helping_ Corypheus,” says Hawke, obviously disgusted at the thought.

“I don’t know much about Clarel,” confesses Alistair, “but no warden would _ever_ serve something that looked like a Darkspawn willingly. Bron and I found references to an ‘advisor’ of some kind, though. Given how fiercely independent the wardens are, and their secrecy, I’m curious as to who could possibly be advising them.”

“So where are the wardens now?” Hawke asks.

“It would appear that the wardens are gathering in the Western Approach,” says Bron, “according to some maps I found at the Keep, there’s an old Tevinter ritual tower there. Alistair and I were going to investigate.”

“We hoped, Hawke, that you would come with us,” adds Alistair.

“Of course,” replies Hawke, and Bron is surprised at how quickly, _almost eagerly_ , she agrees. “We wouldn’t even _be_ in this mess if I had killed Corypheus properly the first time. Now I have to… I have to put things right.”

“Excellent,” Alistair exclaims, face wrinkling as his mouth pulls into a broad gin.

It seems weird to Bron to think that there had been a time when she’d had to _beg_ a reluctant Alistair to come on this mission to find the wardens. Now he seems as determined in his quest as she is.

“But surely we should go to the Inquisition first – show them the information you have uncovered,” Hawke says, and Bron feels her heart clench at the mention of the Inquisition, the wound still so fresh.

“The Inquisition is dead; they were destroyed by an avalanche” Bron says, and her tone is a little snappy. _Surely Hawke already knows about this?_

Hawke’s brows twist in confusion, and there’s an amused quirk to her lips. “Haven’t you heard?” she says, “the Inquisition was not destroyed by an avalanche, the Inquisition _caused_ an avalanche to take out an army of corrupted Templars. The Inquisition is alive and well, taking residence in an old fortress in the Frostbacks.”

Wait – _what_?!

The Inquisition is alive? Her friends still live?

_Leliana is alive_!

Bron’s heart is pounding, so fast she can feel it rattle against the inside of her ribcage, and she can’t remember the last time she was this excited.

Her hand reaches out involuntarily and gives Alistair’s forearm a squeeze.

“The Inquisition lives!” she says, quiet and intense, and Alistair looks at her with a peculiar expression, wide eyes and arched brows. Is he as surprised as she is that the Inquisition is all right, or maybe just surprised at her enthusiasm?

“Can you take us to the Inquisition?” Bron asks, leaning eagerly toward Hawke.

“Yes – Varric has written with clear instruct-“

“Varric is alive!” Bron interrupts, the words tumbling out before she can stop herself.

Hawke laughs at Bron’s enthusiasm. “Yes,” she says through warm chuckles, “nothing can keep that bastard down.”

“Well,” Bron says as she pulls herself shakily to her feet. She’s been sitting cross-legged on the hard cave floor for so long that her legs have gone numb, and she staggers a little as she stands. “We should go at once,” she insists, “we should get to the Inquisition as soon as possible.”

“Easy there!” Alistair cries as he scrambles to his feet, grabbing her by the elbow to steady her as she sways. “Shouldn’t we rest? Wait for the storm to pass? Wait for daylight? You were pretty adamant earlier that we should be cautious.”

“Bron is right,” Hawke says, “your warden friends will be back as soon as they’re done licking their wounds. We should be gone when they do.”

“Besides…” Bron adds, leaning closer to Alistair and pitching her voice low so that Hawke can’t overhear her, “ _I want to go_ _home_.”

He smiles at her, soft and sympathetic, and while she’d expected him to tease her for her unexpected sentimentality, instead he simply nods. Bron is dimly aware that his hand is still holding her elbow, gentle but unwavering, and she’s surprised to find that she quite likes it there. It’s… _comforting_.

“All right,” he says, “let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	9. Welcome to the Inquisition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the unexpected delay with this chapter! I've had some crazy weeks at work and then I went to Disney World for two weeks. I've also just been struggling to get this chapter done - it's one of those awkward transition chapters as we move from 'Bron and Alistair go road-tripping' to 'Bron and Alistair hang with the Inquisition'.

Something is wrong with Bron.

Something is _seriously_ wrong with Bron.

He’d tried to ignore it at first; had hoped that everything would just return to normal if he carried on as if nothing was amiss. But it had been a long journey from Crestwood to the Frostbacks and everything was still, well, _wrong_ – _all wrong_! 

Maybe she’s sick? Maybe she’d been hit on the head when fighting the wardens? _Oh Maker_ , how had he missed the _massive head trauma_ that was surely afflicting her?!

Alistair is worried.

She just… she won’t – she won’t… _shut up_!

It had been an _endless stream_ of chit-chat ever since they’d met Hawke. At every hour of every day, Bron had been talking _non-stop_.

He’d heard more stories about Bron in the days since they’d left Crestwood than he had in all the weeks before. He’d heard about her time in Orlais with Leliana, about her childhood growing up in Highever, about her journey across Ferelden to find him. He knows more about her past than maybe anyone else he’s ever met.

Although – when Alistair _really_ thinks about it – he still knows very little about her.

He’d heard numerous stories about the exasperating shenanigans of Bron’s brothers but he’s not actually sure whether she has three or four. And he knows now that Leliana is an old friend of Bron’s father but he is yet to discover how they’d met or why they’d become friends.

Bron seems to have the remarkable ability to say a lot without really _saying_ anything at all.

Hawke hadn’t noticed anything was awry, of course, had instead been content to happily chatter away as if Bron’s behaviour was perfectly normal.

“She’s so friendly,” Hawke had said to him one evening, “not at all like you’d described her in your letters.”

Alistair had only smiled and nodded, trying to ignore the swelling panic inside of him at the thought that Bron was suffering from a possibly life-threatening head trauma. Because while Hawke doesn’t know any better; Alistair _does_.

Bron _hates_ chit-chat, hates idle conversation and polite small-talk. Bron is direct – consistently concise – always choosing her words carefully so as to not use any more than strictly necessary.

No – something is clearly horribly, _horribly_ wrong.

“There’s this tree behind the house and my brothers used to climb it when they were little,” Bron says, and Alistair can’t really remember how long she’s been talking about trees but it’s definitely been too long. He shifts uncomfortably in his saddle, looks around to see whether there are some convenient bandits lurking around. _There’s never an ambush when you want one_.

“And I always wanted to climb up the tree to join them but I was always too short,” she continues, “so one day I stacked up several chairs and made, well, a sort of ramp, until I could clamber up into the branches.”

He nods his head politely. He’s been doing that a lot recently, too baffled by her chattiness to reciprocate properly.

“I was so happy to finally be in that tree with them; to finally reach their secret hiding spot. I was so damn pleased with myself! But then they all jumped from the tree and took away the chairs so I had no way down to the ground. They thought it was hilarious – they couldn’t stop laughing. I was stuck up that tree for hours!” 

She chuckles at her own story, a tight, papery thing that makes it clear this is not actually a happy memory. Alistair feels a sudden pang of sympathy. It’s funny, he thinks, that her tense laughter can reveal so much more than her rambling stories.

He wants to say something comforting but before he’s had the chance to think of something, she’s already started talking again.

“So…” she begins as she turns to face him, wearing a smile as forced as her laugh had been, “what’s your favourite tree-related story?”

Wait – _what?_

Alistair’s face falls slack, mouth agape at the sheer ridiculousness of her question.

 _That’s enough_!

He feels something snap, his patience tested too far. He is _not_ going to indulge this madness anymore. Who even _has_ a favourite tree-related story?! 

“You’ve got to stop this right now!” he bites back, a little sharper than he’d intended. But then Alistair is a little on edge right now; more convinced than ever that Bron’s non-stop jabbering is an indication that her health is severely compromised.

“Stop what?” she asks innocently, her expression genuinely baffled, and he can’t tell whether she’s playing with him.

“Stop _this_ ,” he says, waving his arm between them as if that’s explanation enough. “Stop this constant… _chat_ – this mindless nattering. I don’t know what’s gotten into you but you _have_ to stop talking! This isn’t like you, Bron. It’s… unsettling!”

She suddenly looks embarrassed, a roaring pink blooming across her cheeks and down her neck. He’s never seen her react like this before, never seen her blush; it isn’t exactly the response he was expecting.

“I… um…” she dips her head, seemingly unable to maintain eye-contact as she struggles to find the right words.

“What is it?” he prompts, voice a little kinder than before; he really hadn’t meant to shout.

“You said,” she begins hesitantly, “you said… that you can hear the Calling when it’s… when it’s _quiet_ …” She lets her voice trail off, head still bowed, and Alistair doesn’t understand, doesn’t quite grasp what she’s trying to say.

But then he is struck with a sudden, startling realisation.

She’s doing it for him.

All of this mindless chit-chat – _she’s doing it for him_.

“Y-you’re… i-is this?...” he stutters, expression pinched with confusion, “are you talking continually to… to distract me from the Calling?”

“Is it working?” she asks by way of an answer. And he didn’t think it was possible for her cheeks to become even pinker but they somehow manage. It’s quite endearing really. 

He chuckles warmly, and a little breathlessly, shaking his head with incredulity. “That’s _incredibly thoughtful_ of you,” he replies.

“I have my moments…” she quips with a small, pleased smile, although it’s clear from the persistent flush in her cheeks that she’s still embarrassed that her little scheme has been uncovered.

Alistair wants to say more, to explain to Bron just how much her small act of kindness means to him. For days now she’s been doing something that makes her incredibly uncomfortable – just to lessen his burden. It is rare for Alistair to be on the receiving end of such selflessness and he can’t help but feel a little overwhelmed.

For the first time since they’d left Crestwood, an easy silence falls over the two of them and Alistair is pleased to discover that everything _finally_ feels normal again. Everything _finally_ feels as it was before.

Except – wait – no it doesn’t. Something still feels different.

Because Bron doesn’t feel so distant anymore. Of course, there’s still a lot that she conceals from him. But she’s told him so many stories, revealed a part of her that he honestly never thought he would get to see, and she just seems _closer_ now, more real.

“Look!” Hawke suddenly calls from a little further ahead, and Alistair starts a little at the unexpected intrusion on his thoughts. “It appears that we’re nearly at Skyhold.”

Alistair looks up at Hawke just in time to see her gesturing vaguely toward the mountain range ahead and although it’s still far away, he can just make out a tall, sturdy building nestled between the peaks. It looks cold – a hard, dark structure standing out starkly against the pristine white of the mountaintops. Alistair had wanted it to look a bit more… enticing.

When he turns to look back at Bron, he finds her smiling broadly, the kind of wide, toothy grin that she saves for special occasions. Her excitement is palpable, her whole body thrumming with anticipation.

Alistair wishes he shared some of her enthusiasm.

The Inquisition had been their end-goal for some time now but he’d never actually thought about what would happen when he reached it. He and Leliana hadn’t exactly parted ways on friendly terms. He’d left quickly and without ceremony after the Landsmeet, not taking a moment even to say goodbye to his travelling companions. Would she be happy to see him? Would it matter to him if she wasn’t?

And what about the rest of the Inquisition? Would they welcome a disgraced former warden into their midst? Would they trust him? Would Anora finally find out about his presence in Ferelden and send someone after him?

Well – whatever questions Alistair has, it won’t be long now until he gets some answers.

* * *

Bron is _home_.

Sure, it might not exactly _look_ the same as last time but it certainly _feels_ the same.

As they cross the bridge and under the arch of the watchtower, Bron finds her excitement growing as she hears the familiar sounds of Haven, now transplanted to this strange new place. She can hear the haggling of shoppers, the whinnying of horses in Dennet’s stables, the clanking of weapons from the training yard and the oddly comforting bellowing of voices.

For someone who prefers the quiet, Bron is amazed by how much this cacophony of noise pleases her.

They’d clearly been spotted on their approach because a little welcoming party is already waiting for them in the yard. Nothing grand or lavish, just Josephine and Varric standing patiently near a staircase. And Leliana, of course, with her hands clasped in front of her and a gentle smile adding warmth to usually cold features.

Bron jumps from her horse as soon as she spots her old friend waiting for her, trying to appear calm and collected but certainly failing. She hurries across the grass with an awkward little skip, tossing only a cursory greeting toward Varric and Josephine before throwing herself at Leliana, wrapping her arms tightly around her.

Clearly taken aback by this uncharacteristic display of physical affection, Leliana stands rigid for a moment before she finally reacts, lifting her arms to pull Bron closer, one hand cupping the back of Bron’s head in a gesture of almost motherly affection.

Bron is dimly aware of conversation happening around her, introductions and words of welcome, but all her attention is fixated on the woman in front of her, and the comforting thrum of a heartbeat she can hear where her ear is pressed to Leliana’s chest. She cherishes that sound, the long-awaited proof that Leliana is undeniably still alive.

Bron feels a little embarrassed when she finally steps back, oddly exposed at having indulged in such public exhibitionism. But then she’d thought Leliana dead for such a long time and the memory of her grief is still so strong in her mind. Compared to the anguish she’d felt when she thought Leliana lost to her forever, a little public embarrassment seems inconsequential.

Alistair moves toward them then, and she’d almost forgotten he was there, and when Leliana pulls him into a quick hug, he returns it with polite stiffness.

Bron can’t help but feel amused at this sudden role reversal: herself affectionate and open while Alistair is awkward and stiff.

Alistair is saved from his discomfort when Josephine steps forward and ushers them all toward the fortress’s main Keep, insisting that they all head to the War Room at once for introductions with the Inquisitor. Bron would rather disappear somewhere to wash off the grime of the road, maybe take a few moments of solitude to gather her thoughts. She may feel joyful at having finally returned to the Inquisition but she also feels a little overwhelmed; Skyhold is a lot to take in all at once. But Bron knows better than to disobey a direct order from Josephine and she follows the Ambassador without argument. 

They wait in the War Room for some time (the Inquisitor is very busy, Josephine explains) and though Bron considers herself a patient woman, she finds herself resenting the delay. She could be exploring her new home right now, seeking out old friends she thought buried under snow. At the very least, she could be peeling out of travelling leathers she has worn for far, _far_ too long. Instead, she tries to distract herself by asking Josephine and Leliana about the Inquisition, fascinated to learn about everything that has happened during her absence, about the destruction of Haven and a seemingly impossible journey across the Frostbacks.

Alistair hovers uncertainly at the periphery of the room, standing close to Bron but trying to keep his distance from everyone else (perhaps not yet ready to answer the questions that they all undoubtedly have).

Suddenly the door swings open and two familiar faces walk in, a little more severe than she remembers, perhaps, but still a welcome sight. Cassandra is murmuring something into Lavellan’s ear and Bron is surprised by Lavellan’s stern frown as she shakes her head furiously in response. The Lavellan she remembers had always seemed a little intimidated in Cassandra’s presence, a little nervous, a little wary. But now she seems to hold herself with a new determination.

But then Bron notices the way Lavellan avoids looking at the War Table, the slightly uncomfortable way she skirts around the outside of the room, and Bron finds it comforting to know that some of the woman she remembers still remains.

She’d always liked Lavellan; she has a kindness and an openness that Bron admires in other people.

“Bron!” Lavellan cries in greeting when she finally catches sight of her, the discomfort in her face bleeding away to make room for a smile. She reaches out to grasp Bron’s hands. “It’s good to see you again. You look well.”

It’s a friendly greeting, warmer than Bron had expected. Perhaps she had been missed.

It’s a nice thought.

“And you must be the ever-elusive Alistair!” Lavellan calls out to Alistair, moving away from Bron until she’s close enough to take his hands. “You’re a _big guy_!” she exclaims as she looks up at his far taller frame towering above her, “I’m impressed that a big guy like you was able to stay hidden for so long!”

“Thanks?” he replies gingerly, brows knitting together in bemusement. Whatever Alistair had been expecting, Lavellan clearly is not it.

“I hear you’re going to solve our warden conundrum,” she continues

“That’s the plan,” he says with a nonchalant shrug that Bron can tell is forced.

“Well then let me be the first to say - welcome to the Inquisition!”

* * *

Alistair rolls his tankard between his hands, watching as the last dregs of beer swirl around the bottom in an almost hypnotizing circular motion.

Up at the bar, Leliana is ordering their second round, and Alistair is grateful for the brief moment to himself.

His reunion with Leliana had been a bit… _awkward_ so far. He is glad to see her of course; he had considered her a good friend during the Blight. But the Blight feels like a lifetime ago now and he knows that he’s changed, can tell that she’s changed too.

She is darker, _colder_. Not that she hadn’t always had an edge, always held something stark and deadly within, but there’d always been a lightness to her as well, a sunny idealism that Alistair had always admired. To be an idealist in a cruel world had always seemed like such an impressive feat. But now some of that lightness has left her eyes, and she looks upon him with a new hardness.

Not that he can judge her; he is harder now too. Nearly 10 years in exile will do that to a man. He’s less trusting now, less optimistic. Alistair wonders whether his own eyes now look as dark as hers.

He wishes Bron was with him. He doesn’t know why, but he feels like she’d make conversation a little easier. She does know both of them after all. At the very least, she’d put him at ease; she seems to have that effect on him.

He’d been feeling tense ever since he’d arrived at Skyhold, a little on edge, a little high-strung – like he doesn’t belong (and he knows he doesn’t, not really). He’d only really felt at ease when he was with Bron. He _knows_ her, knows that she is on his side, knows that she would never judge him or ask too much of him. 

In the days since they’d arrived at Skyhold, Alistair had spent almost all his time with Bron (when he wasn’t hiding in his room of course). They’d taken all their meals together, sparred together in the yard, attended meetings together with the Inquisitor and her advisors. For much of the time, they’d simply sat in the Chantry garden and read.

Nothing has really changed – they’ve been spending every moment together for several months now – but something definitely feels… _different_. They aren’t constantly travelling any more; they are in the safe confines of Skyhold and it seems oddly domestic, _oddly intimate_ , to spend so much time with just one other person.

But then Bron is the only person he knows at Skyhold so _of course_ he spends all of his time with her.

Well, apart from Hawke, but then he’d barely seen her. Hawke had slipped away almost as soon as they’d arrived, claiming that she didn’t want to draw too much attention to herself. Alistair can respect that; for someone as infamous as the Champion of Kirkwall, it’s probably difficult to get a little privacy. Alistair would occasionally see her skulking around the corridors, paying Varric a visit no doubt, but usually she just kept to the quarters that Josephine had found her.

It’s a vain effort of course. Skyhold may be a large fortress but it isn’t big enough to keep the rumours from circulating. She’d barely been in Skyhold for one day before talk of the Champion dominated most conversations.

Well – he was glad they were talking about her and not him.

“Here you go, my friend,” comes Leliana’s softly lilting voice as another tankard of beer is placed in front of him. He nods in thanks and puts his empty tankard aside to take hold of the new one.

“Is it good?” she asks as she watches him fuss with his hands.

“Yes, thank you. Much better than anything I’ve had recently.”  
  
They sip their drinks in silence, not the comfortable kind of silence he shares with Bron but the kind of heavy, laden silence that plagues those who have too much to say but not the words to say it. There are questions that he’s been avoiding, important topics that he’s been skirting. And it’s silly, really, to think that he’s come all this way to the Inquisition and yet can’t build up the courage to ask the questions he’s been longing to ask to the one woman who might actually have the answers.

“Do you-” he starts before abruptly stopping. He takes a deep breathe before starting again: “are you still friends with Elissa?”

Leliana looks a bit shocked at his sudden question but then she composes her features into a small smile. It’s not a fond smile, rather sad and oddly distant.

“Friends?” she ponders, “I’m not sure we were ever really friends. I think we could have been but… I’m not sure friendship would have been possible after… well, after Connor.”

They both fidget uncomfortably at the memory.

Connor had only been a child, lost and afraid, and Elissa had ended his life without even hesitating. She’d justified it by saying that Connor was already dead, that the demon had killed him long before she raised her blade. It was little solace to Alistair. Surely there had been an alternative – the mages at Kinloch Hold perhaps – but Elissa had claimed that there wasn’t enough time, that two many innocent villagers would die if Connor was not stopped immediately.

At the time, he’d relented to her logic. He wishes now that he’d fought harder.

“If she wasn’t your friend, why did you stay with her?” he asks with genuine curiosity.

“She was… effective. She was practical and logical and… and maybe she could have been kinder. But the Archdemon needed defeating, the Blight brought to an end, and I thought she was the one chosen by the Maker to do it. I… I still do.”

She shakes her head, scratches at the wooden tabletop with a fingernail. “Maybe she could have done things differently. Maybe she couldn’t. But I never doubted that I belonged by her side; I needed to see things through… right to the bitter end.”

He nods like he understands. And he thinks he does. After all, he’d been happy to travel alongside her for a long time, had been prepared to fight by her side right to the Archdemon. At the time, everything she did had seemed justified. Her cold pragmatism had been necessary to bring an end to the Blight. It was only after he’d been exiled that he started to reevaluate everything, to think that maybe he’d been an accomplice to something… dark.

“But to answer your original question,” she says, pulling him away from his thoughts, “yes… yes I am still in touch with Elissa.”

He nods again. He has his answer but it’s not, well… it hardly feels satisfying. He needs to ask more but he can’t quite figure out what to say.

They drink their drinks for a time.

“Do you know where she is now?” he asks after a long pause, “has she gone missing with the rest of the wardens?”

“No,” she answers quickly, “I don’t know where she is. But according to her last letter, she did not heed Warden Commander Clarel’s orders. She has gone on her own quest.”

“That sounds like Elissa,” Alistair notes with a dry chuckle, “she was never one to follow orders; she always did _exactly_ as she pleased.”

Leliana nods her head vigourously in agreement then abruptly stills, head dipping in a way that makes her look… guilty? She looks like she’s about to say something but then – doesn’t. Alistair takes a long, drawn-out sip of his beer while he waits for her.

“She was trying to save your life,” she says after a long pause and Alistair looks at her sharply, brows dipping with confusion.

“What?”

“Elissa was trying to save your life when she sent you away,” she explains, “Anora wanted to kill you – she thought you were a threat to her crown – and Elissa thought that exile would save your life.”

“And I’m supposed to be grateful?” he asks. 

“No – I don’t expect that,” she says before pausing, “but you and Elissa were close and I think… I think she was trying to do right by you. In her own way.”

He takes another long sip of his beer while he considers his next response.

“I’m actually glad she exiled me,” he says, and he takes a perverse sort of pleasure in watching Leliana’s face twist in surprise (and he wonders whether the Inquisition’s spymaster is often surprised). “Because you’re right – Anora probably would have killed me. And if Elissa hadn’t made Loghain a warden, if she’d killed him and I’d fought the Archdemon by her side instead – well then I’d be dead instead of him. And I quite like not being dead.”

He chortles softly to himself and it pleases him when Leliana joins in, even tentatively.

“And besides – for the first time in my life, I’m in control. I’m not following orders from the Templars or from the Wardens. Every job I take, I _choose_ for myself. My life might not be noble or heroic but it’s _mine_.”

“That’s a… remarkably mature outlook you have there,” she says, and her sharply arched brows betray her obvious surprise at his level-headed attitude. And to be honest, he himself is surprised a little by his words. Because he really does mean them. Yes – he’d been bitter and angry when Hawke had found him in the Hanged Man during his exile. But he’d built a sort of life for himself in the years since then and while he isn’t exactly ecstatic, he is… _content_.

He laughs richly at Leliana’s baffled expression.. “I’m going to ignore your astonishment! Otherwise I would be gravely offended.”

Leliana laughs with him. It’s not much of a laugh, too strained and small, but it’s a start and Alistair can feel some of the tension between them dissipate. The air between them feels clearer now that they’ve talked about Elissa. Before, she’d hovered above them like a spectre. But speaking her name seems to have banished her ghoulish presence and they can finally just talk as old friends.

Alistair tells her about his exile, about some of the more exuberant people he’d met or the more outrageous jobs he’d worked, and in turn she tells him about the Inquisition, and her pride is clear from the tone of her voice. She’s built something of which she’s clearly supremely proud and Alistair finds he’s almost jealous. When was the last time he acted with such clear purpose?

It suddenly strikes him that he’s actually enjoying himself. In fact, he’s so absorbed in conversation that he almost doesn’t notice the door to the tavern open. _Almost_. Except he’s been keeping an eye out for Bron all evening and there’s no way he’s going to miss her when she does finally appear.

She walks in briskly, shutting the door carefully behind her in her usual fastidious manner, and he can see her nod in acknowledgement when he throws her an awkward little wave. But then before she can make her way over to him, she’s accosted by someone sitting near the door and he’s left watching impatiently while she talks to her friends.

Bron looks… _different_ , he thinks as he stares at her from across the room. She looks softer, out of her usual leathers, wearing instead a loose fitting shirt and cotton trousers.

And it’s not just this evening, either. Something’s been different about her ever since they’d arrived in Skyhold. She smiles more now, wider and with greater ease. On the road, her smiles had always been a little thin, a little tight; like someone had made a joke at her expense and she was trying to hide her offence. And her posture seems more relaxed, no longer coiled with tension, ready to spring to action if required.

Even her gait has changed. Her walk is less hurried, her steps longer, hips swaying enticingly with each step.

Wait, that’s not right – _why is Alistair watching Bron’s hips_?

 _Well... because she’s beautiful_ , he supposes.

What?! No – she’s… Bron, she’s… 

Oh Maker, she _is_ beautiful.

Huh.

He hadn’t seen that coming.

When they’d first met, he’d thought her too cold, her face too impassive to be considered conventionally pretty. But then, as he’d come to know her, he’d noticed all the little things that gave her expressions life. The little crease in her forehead when she’s thinking, the way her eyes darken when she’s listening really intently. That funny little smile she makes when he tells a particularly bad joke, lips curled in amusement but pulled thin as if she’s trying too hard not to laugh.

 _Maker, he loves the way she smiles_.

What?! No! Love seems a bit strong – he’s _very fond_ of the way she smiles. Not love, _of course not love_.

He tries to push his thoughts away with a firm shake of his head. Bron’s his friend, one of very few, and it’s not right for him to be thinking about her in this way.

“Alistair!” snaps Leliana, “did you hear what I just said?”

“Ugh, yes, yes – I’m… ugh… fine,” he stutters hastily, earning him a mildly reproachful glower from Leliana. But then she spots Bron waving farewell to her friends and making her way toward their table and her frown quickly melts away until she just looks… well, Alistair’s not quite sure how to read her expression. There’s amusement there, but also… knowing? Like she’s figured out some great secret and is now immensely proud of herself. Proud and smug. Definitely a bit smug.

“Good evening,” Bron says brightly as she takes a seat at Alistair and Leliana’s table, “I’m sorry to interrupt your conversation.”

“No, don’t worry,” Leliana says, that smug little smile still in place, “I don’t think Alistair was really listening anymore anyway.”

“I…” Alistair begins, intending to defend himself from Leliana’s pointed comments, but then his voice trails off feebly when he realises he genuinely can’t remember what they’d been talking about when Bron had entered the room. The whole thing’s rather embarrassing really, made worse by Leliana’s oddly triumphant smirk.

“We were just catching each other up on what we’ve been up all these years,” Leliana explains, covering for Alistair’s awkward mumbling. “It’s been a long time; there was a lot to talk about.”

Bron hums thoughtfully, eyes scanning over Alistair and then Leliana in turn. He knows that face, knows when he’s under Bron’s careful scrutiny. She’s confused by how flustered he appears, concerned by his reticence, and trying to figure out whether his reunion with his old friend has been a pleasant one.

She raises a brow at him questioningly, eyes gently probing. _Is everything all right?_

Alistair tries to give her a reassuring smile, head tilted slightly to the side. _Everything’s fine; we’re just talking._

She gives a satisfied nod and Alistair is relieved when he sees her posture relax.

Across the table from him, Leliana is watching them both closely, clearly intrigued by their silent exchange. Her brows are low, gaze focused, and Alistair can see now where Bron learned her scrutinising gaze.

It is a discomforting experience, and he feels oddly exposed under Leliana’s piercing stare. That damned smile of hers doesn’t help, lips curled wickedly, _knowingly_. He wishes she would stop.

“Well I’ve taken up enough of your evening,” Leliana announces as she rises from her chair, “I’ll leave you two to… _chat_.” She puts a little too much emphasis on the last word. It sounds oddly vulgar.

She gives Alistair’s shoulder a friendly squeeze as she walks passed him then leans over Bron to place a gentle kiss on the crown of her head. The two women exchange a few words in Orlesian (and he forgets sometimes that Bron has spent most of her adult like in Orlais) before Leliana gives a final wave and walks smartly from the tavern. 

He watches Leliana until the door closes behind her and when he turns his attention back to Bron he finds that she’s already looking at him, the same expression of concern from before back on her face.

“So your conversation went… well?” she asks tentatively. 

“Well enough. A little awkward at first but…” he pauses and considers, “It was… _nice_ \- by the end at least.” 

“Good, I was… worried.” 

He smiles, oddly touched. “You were? Why?”

“We’ve been at Skyhold for several days now and you’ve barely spent any time with Leliana. I was beginning to suspect you were avoiding her.”

“Well… I guess I was.” 

“I thought she was your friend.”

“She _was_ – a very long time ago. But people change, and I left Fereldan so suddenly, and I wasn’t sure what it would be like to see her again.”

“She has always spoken very highly of you.”

“Really?” he exclaims, disbelief evident in his tone. He hadn’t realised that Leliana thought so well of him. 

“Your commitment to the wardens, your skill with a blade, your kindness and compassion – Leliana told me many stories.” She pauses and looks to the side, raising her hands to rub at her eyes in what Alistair suspects is a poor attempt at hiding her growing blush. 

He’s seen her like this a lot recently, fidgety and embarrassed. Perhaps it’s because she’s finally being more open with him and it makes her uncomfortable. Alistair suspects Bron’s not the type who deals well with feeling exposed. 

“I was actually rather… well… _excited_ to be picked for the mission of retrieving you from your exile,” she continues,” I’d heard so many stories of your heroism during the blight. I thought that you would be a… _formidable_ man.”

He can’t help but laugh sharply at that. “You must have been pretty disappointed when you finally found me.”

“Yes – enormously,” she replies without missing a beat and while he wouldn’t blame her if she did indeed find him a disappointment, he can tell from her smirk that she is only teasing him.

“Yes, well, I may be a disappointment but at least I’m here! I’m with the Inquisition and you’ve succeeded in your mission.”

A delighted smile spreads across her face, smug and self-satisfied. It’s endearing really, how pleased she is with herself, revelling in contentment at her success.

“Out of curiosity…” he ventures, deciding it the right time to ask a question he’s been considering for some time, “what would you have done if I had refused to come back to Haven with you?” 

She takes a brief moment to think, lips pursed and brows furrowed. “My mission was too important to fail,” she answers, “I would not have returned to Haven without you.”

“So you would have just stayed and carried on trying to persuade me to come with you?”

“No,” she says, shaking her head primly, “I would have poisoned you and kept you unconscious for several days as I took you back to Haven against your will.”

He laughs; he’s always enjoyed Bron’s dry, deadpan humour. But then he realises that she’s not laughing with him and he suddenly stills. “You’re – _not joking_?”

She looks affronted, glaring at him sharply as if he has somehow impugned her character. “I don’t joke about abductions,” she states simply.

Well, quite right. He doesn’t know what he was expecting really. He’d asked her a straightforward question and she’d given him a straightforward, unfailingly practical answer in response – just as Bron always had.

“For the record, I’m glad that you came willingly,” she hurriedly adds, “I’m glad that I didn’t have to poison you.”

“Yeah. I’m pretty glad about that too,” he drawls dryly, rolling his eyes and grimacing dramatically until Bron breaks into easy giggles. 

And actually, when he really thinks about it, he’s glad about a great many things. He’s glad that he survived the Blight. He’s glad that he met Hawke and that she gave him the push he needed to sort out his life. He’s glad that Bron found him, glad that she stuck with him, even when she thought the Inquisition dead and she could have easily walked away from him. He’s glad that she’s here with him now, laughing at his silly faces and teasing him with the calm ease of an old friend.

She raises a hand and nudges his shoulder playfully. It’s a simple gesture, just a fleeting moment of physical contact. But Bron doesn’t touch easily and he knows that this is important; that they’ve both worked hard to develop this easy, warm comradeship.

Despite his initial reservations, he’s glad that he’s here, with the Inquisition. It’s… _nice_ , he thinks, to feel like he belongs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	10. Salt and Sand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New POV character! Say hello to Eleri, my Lavellan Inquisitor! If you're curious about Eleri and her shenanigans, then you can check out [Where the River Flows](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5210387/chapters/12011243).
> 
> And then Alistair and Bron are just repeatedly adorable together (apart from when they're stabbing things - and maybe even then too).

The Western Approach is hot.

The Western Approach is really _bloody_ hot.

Sweat drips down Eleri’s face. She can _feel_ it; fat, salty globules that trickle agonisingly slowly across her forehead, dribble along her nose and then dramatically swan-dive onto the front of her tunic. A large, dark sweat-patch has formed across her chest, a fitting accompaniment to the sweat-patches at her armpits and lower back. Everything feels damp and sticky, a layer of sand clinging persistently to clammy skin.

Eleri has never felt so utterly wretched in all her life.

Trudging through the monotonous beige of the Western Approach, feet blistered and throbbing, eyes burning from the sand being whipped into her eyes by an unrelenting wind, Eleri tries to conjure memories of sweeter sights: the Planasene Forest in the Spring, when the first green and gold leaves unfurl and the fragrance of wildflowers wafts on the breeze; the way the sunset glimmers on the waters of the Waking Sea, making it appear as if the very water is aflame; and the dramatic pinnacles of the Vinmark Moutains, like mighty fortresses carved from the natural stone, foreboding and welcoming all at the same time.

But the Western Approach doesn’t have the grandeur of the mountains nor the sparkle of the ocean. The Western Approach only has sand, and rock and sad clumps of dry tundra

Eleri misses the green.

There’s a sad, keening whine from beside her and Eleri instinctually reaches out to give her faithful mabari a gentle pat.

“I know, Melly,” she coos, though her throat is too rough with sand and grit to sound truly comforting, “it’s not much further now.”

And, for her sake as much as Melly’s, she hopes that she’s right. She can see the Tevinter ritual tower in the distance, see the stark claws of stone reaching into the air, but with a flat, featureless landscape stretching before her, it’s hard to judge just how much further it is to travel.

It’s a grim sight; this distant, stone structure, weathered by the ages and blasted by sand. And yet, still oddly proud, smug even, the thick blocks of grey standing as an anathema to the softly undulating dunes of the natural landscape. She’d been relieved when Hawke had first pointed out the structure, relieved that their three-week journey was finally nearing an end. But that relief had soon ebbed when she’d felt the sheer wrongness that seemed to emanate from the ritual tower. It thrums with an unnatural energy, with an air as caustic and acrid as poison.

Whatever they are to find at the tower, Eleri knows that it will not be good.

Her discomfort only grows as they get nearer, a hungry, gnawing feeling that seethes in the pit of her stomach. She can see the occasional flash of light from the tower and, sometimes, she thinks she can _hear_ something too, something eerie, inhuman almost, drifting in the wind. At first she’d dismissed the noises as just the peculiar sounds of the natural world, the hiss of wind across sand, the whistling of rock tunnels. But it’s clear now that the noises are coming from the tower itself. There’s a dry fizzling, followed by a hollow bellow. And the screams, of course, quiet and stifled but unmistakably there.

A short distance from the tower, Eleri and her companions meet with Bron and Alistair, sent ahead to scout the route, and their severe expressions do nothing to alleviate Eleri’s apprehension.

“It’s good to see you,” Bron says as she steps forward, nodding at Eleri and the rest of the Inquisition in greeting.

“What can you tell us?” Cassandra asks from Eleri’s side, taking this short pause in their journey as an opportunity to rearrange the sword and shield strapped to her back.

“We arrived a few hours ago and observed the tower from that rock formation,” Bron explains briskly. “At first there seemed no signs of activity but a group of wardens arrived recently. We have yet to see them leave.”

“We’ve seen lights coming from the tower,” Alistair adds, “blood magic, I’d wager.”

“You can smell it,” Hawke says from behind them, her voice dark and venomous, and Eleri’s a little surprised by her tone; Hawke’s been laughing and joshing since they’d left Skyhold, the only member of their small band who’d somehow managed to maintain their spirits throughout the long journey, and it’s weird to see her so intensely focused. Clad in leather armour and gripping tightly to her staff, she no longer looks like just Varric’s drinking buddy, she looks every inch the Champion. 

“How do you want to do this?” Hawke asks Eleri as she strides to the front of the group.

“Quickly and without incident?” Eleri suggests hopefully, trying to ignore the line of grim faces now looking at her expectantly.

Hawke smiles at her indulgently but there’s something a little pitying in her eyes as well. Eleri suspects that Hawke is the only person here who understands what it feels like to find yourself suddenly thrust to the centre of events far too complicated for one woman to tackle.

“You take point. Bron and Alistair can flank. I’ll guard your backs,” Hawke says with a decided nod.

_Right_ , Eleri thinks, _I’ll take point_.

Because _of course_ she has to take point; she’s the leader, she’s the _Inquisitor_.

Except she _really_ doesn’t want to. 

Eleri was her tribe’s healer – a _damned good_ healer. She took great pride in her work, in her extensive knowledge of healing herbs, in her steady hands when stitching a wound. When she did take up her bow, it was only ever for hunting. And now she’s killed so many people she can barely keep track of the numbers. Now she’s the leader of a shemlen religious movement and the whole idea is so preposterous it’s almost comical. 

_Almost_ comical.

Except there’s nothing funny about the looming, snarling arches of the Tevinter ritual tower. Nothing funny about the wailing moans and the snaps of magic she can hear.

Eleri takes a deep, steadying breath before leading her companions across the long, stone bridge that stretches across a deep, narrow gorge and toward the tower. She’s gripping her bow in sweat-slicked hands, hoping desperately that there’s some easy resolution to be found on the other side of the bridge.

She knows that’s unlikely.

But the hope is important to her, no matter how tenuous it may be. 

The first thing Eleri notices as she climbs the steps into the tower itself is the blood dripping in rivulets down the steps, long, thin tendrils of crimson criss-crossing the stone like a spider’s web.

Near the top of the stairs they come across a pile of bodies, a heaped mound of corpses unceremoniously dumped together. It’s a cruel sight, a sorry waste of life that makes Eleri’s skin shiver. She can feel her little sliver of hope wheedling away and it takes every shred of determination she can muster to keep on moving.

“Wait… no…” comes a man’s voice from up ahead, plaintive and wailing. Whoever this man is, he is afraid, _so very afraid_.

Eleri quickens her pace.

At the top of the stairs is a flat, square courtyard, surrounded by stone arches and open to the gradually pinkening sky. She sees the wardens first, the distinctive, rich blue of their armour immediately drawing her attention. But then she sees the demons, standing still at the peripheries of the courtyard, waiting, watching, and her stomach drops.

“Warden Commander Clarel’s orders were clear,” snaps a man standing separate from the wardens. It’s clear that he’s not one of them; his outfit of pristine white sets him starkly at odds with his surroundings. He stands out so brashly, so harshly, like a bolt of lightening in the forest, scorching everything around him.

Eleri immediately dislikes him.

“This is wrong!” pleads the same terrified warden from before. And as Eleri scours the scene unfolding before her, she can clearly see that the man is right. Whatever is happening here in this ancient place, it is not good.

“Remember your oath!” the pristine man gloats smugly, “in war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death… _sacrifice_ ”

At those words another warden steps forward and Eleri thinks she can hear a muffled apology as he stabs a thin, curved blade into the back of his cowering comrade.

There isn’t even a scream. Just a wet gurgling noise and then the man has fallen to the floor. His blood doesn’t pool beneath him as Eleri would expect, instead it plumes upward into the air, convalescing into a ball until there’s a burst of flames and a demon steps out of the nothingness and into the courtyard.

It’s unlike anything Eleri has ever seen.

“Good,” the pristine man gloats, still oblivious to his recently arrived audience, “now bind it. Just as I showed you.”

The warden, his comrade’s blood still dripping from his blade, raises his arm and a green light envelopes the whole area. Then there’s a flash of red and a sparkling noise like the shattering of glass and when everything has cleared, the warden stands still and stony, eyes red and oddly distant.

_What in the fade is going on?_

“Inquisitor, what an unexpected pleasure!” shouts the pristine man, pulling her attention away from the wardens. She starts; she hadn’t realised he’d spotted them. “Lord Livius Erimond of Verantium, at your service.” 

He gives a theatrical little bow to accompany his greeting and Eleri can’t help but wonder whether he thinks this courtyard of horrors is just some silly show for his entertainment. It’s a sickening thought.

“I don’t care who you are,” she spits back at him, “just tell me what is going on here!”

“Is it not obvious?” he crows, clearly enjoying the attention of his new audience, “I am offering my services to the wardens. They found themselves in need of my… _particular_ set of skills”

“Wardens!” calls Alistair, interrupting Erimond to appeal to his former brothers, “this man is lying to you. He serves an ancient Tevinter magister who wants to unleash a Blight.”

Erimond clutches his chest with feigned offence, face contorted into the mockery of innocence. “That’s a very serious accusation. Let’s see what the wardens think.” He takes a moment to adjust the golden fastening at the front of his leather doublet then raises his arm imperiously.

“Wardens!” he bellows, “hands up!”

The wardens obediently raise their hands. 

“Hands down!” he orders again.

The wardens lower their hands.

_Well that’s bloody unsettling_ , Eleri thinks, shifting her weight nervously between her feet.

She can see Alistair bristle from the corner of her eye. He might claim to be an _ex_ -Warden but he’s clearly outraged by this obscene puppetry.

“Corypheus has enslaved them,” Alistair seethes, pushing the words between clenched teeth.

“They did this to themselves!” Erimond protests, “The Calling had the wardens terrified. They looked _everywhere_ for help. And since it was my master that put that Calling into their heads – we in the Venatori were prepared. I went to Clarel full of sympathy and – together – we came up with a plan: raise a demon army, march into the Deep Roads, and kill the Old Gods before they wake.”

“ _Of course_ , the demon army – I was wondering when that would show up,” Eleri says, trying to project an easy confidence she does not feel.

“You knew about it?” Erimond asks with genuine shock, and Eleri feels a small thrill of pleasure at having unnerved him, even if just a little.

“Well it doesn’t matter if you know about it,” he continues once he’s regained his composure, “there’s nothing you can do to stop it. Sadly for the wardens, the binding ritual I taught their mages has a side effect; they’re now my master’s slaves. This here is only the beginning. Once the rest of the wardens complete the ritual, the army will conquer Thedas.” He raises his outstretched arms as he speaks, practically cackling with glee.

“This makes no sense!” Alistair cries, although Eleri’s not sure whether he’s talking to anyone in particular or just shouting in frustration, “why would the Wardens want a demon army?” 

“Demons need to food, no rest, no healing,” Erimond replies, “once bound, they will never retreat, never question orders. They are the perfect army to fight through the deep roads – or across Orlais now that they are bound to my master.”

“And what do you get out of all this?” Eleri asks, confused as to what this preening, posing man could possibly get out of the total destruction of Thedas.

“While the Elder One rules from the Golden City, we, the Venatori, will be his Kings here in the world.”

“You’re a fool!” Eleri shouts, her previous confusion and trepidation now draining away to be replaced with a searing, surging rage, “you will be the Kings of nothing! The empty leaders of a barren, lifeless world. Now release the wardens from their binding and let’s end this madness!”

He laughs in response and Eleri is annoyed that he appears so _amused_ by her demand. 

But then Erimond reaches toward her and she doesn’t have time to be offended because there is an explosion of pain in Eleri’s left hand which sends her buckling to the floor. She thinks she can hear Cassandra call out her name and there’s the distinctive pressure of a hand on her shoulder, but it all seems blurry, oddly indistinct as Eleri cradles her ailing hand and wishes for the pain to stop.

“The Elder One showed me how to deal with you, in the event that you were foolish enough to interfere,” Erimond sneers, “the mark you bear? The Anchor that lets you pass through the Veil? You stole that from my Master and he’s _very_ displeased. When I bring him your head, his gratitude will be-“

“Oh shut up!” Eleri shouts as she rises from her knees, voice loud and thunderous and wholly alien to her ears. She is fed up of his smug, preening voice. She is fed up of _all of these_ proud, patronising shems talking down at her. Why does everyone keep talking at her like she’s a child? 

Straightening her back and holding her head up triumphantly, she lifts her hand as it crackles with energy. She may not fully understand the nature of the Anchor embedded into her hand but the one thing she has managed to learn is how to manipulate its power to her advantage. Channeling all her rage and fear and frustration, she unleashes a wave of power across the courtyard.

Erimond cries out in surprise as the energy pulse hits him square in the chest followed by a pained cry as he is sent arching through the air. He lands with a dull thump against the sandy stone and he looks visibly shaken when he pulls himself up, a line of blood trickling from his nose and one arm hanging limply from his side. Eleri finds it oddly cathartic to see the smears of blood and sand across his formerly pristine outfit.

“Kill them!” Erimond shouts to the Wardens and their demons, voice cracking with desperation, before quickly turning and limping toward the back of the courtyard and a second, smaller staircase that Eleri hadn’t noticed before.

She immediately makes to follow him, raising her bow and aiming an arrow at his knee to hinder his escape. But before she can take her shot, a snarling demon appears in her path, snapping his jaw at an impossible, inhuman angle. She ducks to avoid it, cursing under her breath as she sees Erimond slip away from the corner of her eyes. But there’s no time to worry about Erimond now; there’s a demon looming dauntingly above her and although she instinctually raises her bow before her, she’s not sure what an arrow is supposed to accomplish when faced with a writhing, glowing mass of fire and anger.

She hates this bit.

This moment at the start of battle when the heart starts to pump and instinct takes over and she has to choose to fight or else die. And she tries to stop the quivering in her hands as she grips tightly to the nock of her arrow, tries to tell herself that this is no different from all those times she hunted dear for her clan. Except this _is_ different. Because the wardens have human faces, drained of emotion but human nonetheless, and the demons slip and wail like nothing ever encountered before she left her clan. And while there’s an odd serenity to the hunt, there’s a chaos to the battlefield that is unlike anything else.

But then Cassandra surges before her, pushing Eleri to the back of the group where her ranged attacks will prove more useful. And she can feel the invigorating power of Dorian’s magic and hear the comforting clatter of Varric’s crossbow and as much as she hates the fighting, at least she doesn’t have to do this alone.

No, at least she doesn’t have to do this alone.

* * *

Bron lurches to the left, sidestepping around the Warden’s fireball and wheeling around to his back. His head cranes to follow her, watching her move rather than minding his flank, and when Alistair steps forward with his long-sword poised, it’s too late for the Warden to block the attack. The Warden’s mage-armour offers little protection and Alistair’s sword slides cleanly into his side with a slick slurping noise.

There’s an agonising second of stillness before the Warden starts to fall and Alistair is glad that Erimond’s ritual has already taken the light from the Warden’s eyes because it makes it a little easier to hold the man’s stare as the life slips away from him.

A _little_ easier.

Because it still isn’t easy – cutting down his former brothers, watching them fall before his blade. He tries to tell himself that it’s Erimond who truly killed them; he killed them the moment his ritual bound them to the demons and diminished their souls.

_No, it isn’t easy._

But then another Warden staggers toward Bron, his dagger-ended staff held aloft menacingly, and Alistair hasn’t got the time to think about the unfortunate fate of the Wardens because all that matters now is that someone wants to kill his Bron and he’s not going to let them.

He dashes forward to intercept the Warden’s attack and catches the Warden’s staff with his blade. He jerks his arm back, jabs his elbow into the Warden’s nose, and when the Warden doubles forward in pain, Alistair smashes the pommel of his sword into the base of his skull. There’s a sickening crack of bone against metal then a sharp clunk as the Warden’s body slams onto the blood-slicked floor of the courtyard.

When he looks up, Bron gives him a small nod. _Thank you._

He moves again, the battlefield too crowded with threats for even a moment’s respite, and Bron falls quickly into step at his back. They work in tandem as they circle around the courtyard, Alistair cutting swathes through the demons with broad strokes of his long-sword while Bron jabs and nicks with her rapier. They’re unexpectedly graceful together, twisting and reeling, hacking and slashing in seamless rhythm despite their drastically different fighting styles.

They’ve been practicing together for weeks now, first at Skyhold and then every day as they’d travelled to the Western Approach. And while their sparring sessions had started as simply a way to pass the time between meetings with the Inquisitor, they’d soon become an indispensable way of letting off steam, of keeping busy while waiting for the next step toward finding the Wardens. And, if he’s completely honest with himself, he just _likes_ sparring with Bron; she makes him sharper, makes him faster.

The fight is brutal but quick; even with their demon familiars, the Wardens are no match for the Inquisitor and her allies. They’re a practised team, fighting with confidence, with _conviction_ , their individual skills perfectly balanced to compliment each other. It’s the kind of unity that only comes after months of living and travelling and fighting together, the kind of unity that Alistair had once known during his time with Elissa in the Blight and hadn’t experienced since.

He’s missed that, being part of a team, fighting with the absolute faith in your companions, the unquestionable certainty that these people will stay by your side until the battle is won. He has a little of that feeling back again now, ever since he met Bron. That sense of belonging, that sense of camaraderie, of knowing that someone will always be watching your back. If he can somehow find a place with the Inquisition (and he’s still not sure whether he is a permanent addition to their cause or whether he’s expected to leave once he’s no longer useful), then perhaps he can share in their fellowship.

With the fighting done, an odd silence descends, an eerie quiet that hangs heavily over the courtyard like a shroud. It doesn’t feel like a victory, though their opponents are dead and the Inquisitor and her companions seem relatively unscathed.

Eleri’s allies start to gather round her and Alistair watches with interest as they talk quietly amongst themselves. Eleri fusses over her friends, tutting disapprovingly as she prods at open wounds, while Cassandra speaks in even, solemn tones. Then Varric tells a joke, though Alistair is too far away to hear the punch line, and the small group breaks out in cautious laughter. It’s a heartening scene, comrades-in-arms lending their support to each other in whatever way they know how, and he can’t help but feel a little envious.

He jumps a little when Bron places a tentative hand on his arm; he’d been too lost in his thoughts, too distracted by the Inquisitor and her friends to notice Bron’s approach.

“Are you all right?” she asks, brows furrowed with concern and a displeased frown on her lips.

“Yes, I’m fine – _this_ ,” he gestures to the bodies strewn across the courtyard as he speaks, “is difficult for me.”

“I can understand that,” she says, tightening her grip on his arm in what he suspects is meant to be a comforting gesture.

She’s standing so close to him he can see the beads of sweat hanging from the messy halo of hair around her head, can feel her ragged breath in the space between them. There’s a blood smear across her cheek and he tries to swipe it off with the pad of his thumb. Instead he smears it across her face, a wide slash of red mingling with the dirt and sand that clings to her skin.

Alistair frowns and Bron chuckles and it’s such a precious thing, this little moment of friendship after a punishing battle. He doesn’t want it to end, doesn’t want to turn away from Bron’s soft smile and face the world of problems that awaits them.

But they can’t stay like that forever, standing together amidst the death and the blood, and Bron gives Alistair’s arm one last squeeze before turning away from him and making her way across the courtyard to where Eleri and her companions have assembled.

He follows her, throwing a small wave at Hawke as he sees her approach, stepping gingerly across the scattered corpses and abandoned weapons.

“So… that went well,” Hawke drawls sarcastically when they’ve all grouped around Eleri.

“It’s worse than I imagined,” Alistair says, “I knew to expect blood magic but – _this_ – the Warden mages enslaved to Corypheus.”

“If this is the fate of the mages, what of the Warden _warriors_?” asks Bron with genuine curiosity and everyone stills, eyes downcast.

It had been obvious to Alistair as soon as they’d witnessed the ritual, the warden slain by his brother and the swirling vortex of blood that brought forth the demon. The Warden mages will serve Corypheus and the Warden warriors will pay the price in blood.

Bron’s face suddenly falls as realisation dawns on her.

“Ah - of course,” she says, and Alistair can tell from the little bob of her head that she’s embarrassed that she hadn’t figured it out sooner (and it’s funny that, despite her vocal cynicism, Bron is far more idealistic than she will ever admit).

“So what now?” Eleri asks with understandable frustration. They’d trekked a long way to reach the ritual tower, a difficult and grueling journey, and while they now have some more answers, well, it isn’t exactly the satisfying conclusion that they’d been expecting following nearly a month of travel. A resolution to this catastrophe with the wardens still seems so far away.

“I may know where the wardens are,” Alistair pipes up. “There’s an abandoned Warden fortress to the north-east: _Adamant_. It makes sense that this ritual tower would have been chosen for its proximity to the fortress”

“That’s a good idea,” Eleri says with a nod, “or at least the best one we have right now.”

“Alistair and I can scout ahead to Adamant,” says Bron, “and confirm that the wardens are there. We can meet you back at Skyhold and report our findings.”

“Good,” says Cassandra, noting the group’s nods of agreement, “it is agreed. We will reconvene at Skyhold.”

There are a few more moments of discussion before they part ways, a debate on the best route back to Skyhold, on whether or not the Inquisitor should see to any tasks while en route back to the Frostbacks. And when Eleri is satisfied that everyone is well provisioned, she gives a few parting words – “ _stay safe_ ” – before leading her companions back toward home, her faithful mabari padding behind her.

_I like her_ , Alistair thinks as he watches her small form tramp across the sand. She’s kind, empathetic – good with people and competent on the battlefield. Of course she seems overwhelmed, a Dalish healer thrust unceremoniously into a position of immense responsibility, but she handles it with surprising good humour (if not exactly ease). She’s eager to take advice, keen to listen to as many differing suggestions as possible, but she refuses to be bullied.

He can understand why they made her the Inquisitor (even if it’s clear that she can’t).

And, perhaps oddly, he doesn’t want to let her down, doesn’t want to let any of them down. The Inquisition sought him out so that he could help them find the Wardens – and he’s determined to do just that.

“Adamant is this way,” he calls to Bron as he gestures across the horizon.

Bron is fiddling with her pack, rearranging its contents to make space for the extra provisions that Eleri and her companions had given her for the onward journey to Adamant, but she looks up long enough to see where he’s pointing and nod in understanding.

When she’s ready, she swings her pack onto her back and hurries over to Alistair where he waits at the bottom of the steps to the ritual tower. He’s glad to leave, glad to put the horrors he witnessed there behind him. But the smell is strong, the sharp touch of magic and the coppery tang of blood, and Alistair is afraid the smell will linger in his nostrils long after the tower is out of sight.

They walk across the sand in silence, though Alistair can tell from Bron’s expression that she’s deeply engrossed in some sort of internal conversation. Her brows are moving, lips contorting with silent words, and it would be funny if she didn’t seem so haunted by whatever words were racing through her head.

He waits. If she wants to talk, she will. 

“What a mess,” she finally mutters, “I don’t understand how the Wardens could be so _bloody_ stupid.”

It’s not what he was expecting, this sudden, angry outburst. Something about Bron’s tone riles him and he can feel his body stiffening defensively. “Erimond _lied_ to the wardens,” he says, though he’s not sure it’s a particularly convincing excuse, “they were trying to prevent future Blights.”

“With blood magic and human sacrifice?” she scoffs in response.

“Bron, they made a mistake,” he snaps, unexpectedly irritated by her criticism of the Order, “but they thought it was necessary.”

“Of course _they_ thought it was necessary. People who do terrible things _always_ think that,” Bron snaps back, clearly unwilling to relent in her censure. “No one thinks they are the villain in their own story. Everyone has excuses they tell themselves to justify bad decisions – and it never matters. In the end, it’s just you and your actions.”

“It’s easy for you to judge,” he roars suddenly, stopping in his tracks to turn on her, “you’re not a Warden. You can’t understand what it’s like. You don’t know the burdens that the Order carries. You don’t know!” 

She looks startled for a moment then oddly thoughtful, eyes narrowed. He thought he was getting used to this, to Bron’s analytical stare, but he can’t help but feel strangely exposed. He’d expected her to shout back, rising to defend herself – he hadn’t expected this silent, focused scrutiny. 

“Why are you so angry with me? What is this _really_ about?” she finally asks. 

Her questions take him by surprise. Isn’t it obvious why he’s angry? He’s angry because he’s a Warden and it hurts him to see his former comrades used in such a way. He’s angry because Bron is criticising the Order despite knowing nothing about it. He’s angry because, well…

“It’s not about anything. It’s about _you_ – about you condemning people you can’t possibly understand,” he replies, voice still sharp even if he’s not shouting anymore.

“No – that’s not it. There’s something else; something is bothering you.”

“There’s not.”

“Tell me, Alistair,” she insists, “we don’t keep secrets from each other.”

“Bron, just – just _drop it_.”

“Alistair!”

“It could have been me!” he finally admits, voice loud and raw and so painfully vulnerable that Bron’s stern expression immediately drops into something softer.

“What?” she asks, shaking her head in disbelief.

“It could have been _me_ at that ritual tower, Bron, it could have been me!” he says, “what if _I_ was one those Wardens tricked by the Venatori? I could be enslaved by Corypheus!”

She shakes her head more vigorously now. “You think you would have had anything to do with this? With blood magic? With demons? You would have spoken out! You would have fought tirelessly to stop this madness.”

“You don’t know that,” he says, suddenly very tired. His eyes are drooped, his shoulders bent, and he just feels so… _small_.

“ _I do_ , Alistair,” she insists, leaning forward so that she can look up into his downcast face, “I _know_ you, Alistair. And I know that you would have put a stop to this. Or at least tried _damn hard_.”

And he’s not sure whether Bron will ever stop surprising him but there’s something about Bron’s surety in the strength of his character that leaves him speechless. It’s odd to find someone with such unshakeable faith in him.

Odd but… nice. _Really_ nice.

A small smile starts to tug at his lips, and when Bron sees the tension and the uncertainty leave his face she starts to smile too.

“Now are you with me?” she asks, “in the here and now? Because we have a job to do and I can’t have you distracted by thoughts of what could have been in a different life.”

“I am,” he replies, “I’m with you.”

“Then let’s go find those Wardens,” she says, “because we are going to put an end to all of this.”

And then she surprises him once more by taking his hand, gripping it tightly, firmly in her own, and leading him forward across the sands. And even through the cold, hard metal of his armoured gauntlet, he can feel her warmth, can feel her strength. He gives her hand a squeeze and eagerly falls in step beside her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	11. Warm Bodies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Bron and Alistair realise they have feelings and then decide to do nothing about them because they're both idiots.
> 
> The last chapter was a bit grim and things will get increasingly grimmer once the Inquisition heads out for Adamant so here is a whole chapter of excessive fluff between our two protagonists. Seriously - this thing is so indulgently saccharine, I got tooth ache just writing it. Enjoy!

The sun sits heavy in the sky, bathing Skyhold’s courtyard in warm, golden hues as it slips behind the peaks of the Frostbacks. The fortress is alive with activity, merchants packing away their stalls for the evening, Dennet and his stablehands tending to the horses, and people simply chatting with friends, filling the yard with the comforting sound of mundane contentment. Despite the wintry chill in the air, the early evening sun still holds a lot of heat and people seem determined to enjoy the fresh air for as long as possible before retiring to the warmth of the Keep for the night.

Alistair likes evenings like this, when the sky is clear and cloudless and the air is crisp. _It’s invigorating_ , he thinks; he can feel each move of his muscles, each breath of sharp, cool air as it fills his lungs. No, there’s nothing quite like a bright, biting winter’s evening to make you feel alive.

“All right,” he says, pitching his voice loud enough that Bron can hear him from the other side of the training yard, “now try again.”

Even at this distance he can see her eyes narrow in irritation, though she’s trying to hide it behind her usual mask of calm indifference. Today has not been a good day for her. Perhaps she’s fatigued, or her time in Orlais has left her unused to Ferelden winters, but she’s definitely slower than normal, abnormally clumsy. They’ve been sparring for several hours already and Bron has yet to land a single hit.

Alistair starts moving forward (because Bron is _never_ the one to move first), sword held casually but firmly at his side, ready to be raised when Bron is in range. He’s watching for her reaction, trying to imagine her every possible move and then thinking of how he will counter it. She doesn’t move until he starts to lift his sword, barely a few metres away from her. She dives right, feints left, then pitches forward to pierce her rapier into Alistair’s shoulder. Instead, her blade meets Alistair’s with a light clang and he pushes back with such force that Bron is sent fumbling to the ground

“Oh, Maker, sorry!” he calls, immediately stepping forward and extending a hand to help her up. 

She lets out a frustrated growl as he pulls her to her feet and while Alistair doesn’t want to appear unsportsmanlike, he finds that he can’t help but chuckle in response.

It’s not like Bron to get frustrated. She’s normally so calm and collected, _infuriatingly_ calm even. So he just can’t help but find her funny, this little bundle of anger, swearing colourfully as she dusts herself down. There are few who get to see her like this, unguarded, emotional, honest. He tries to relish in these moments; knowing full well how lucky he is to experience them at all.

“Don’t laugh,” she says, voice testy but lacking any real sharpness.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, although now his chuckles have grown into full-blown rumbles of laughter.

“I’m serious!” she cries indignantly. She’s trying hard to frown at him, tightening her eyes and furrowing her brows, but he can see her lips pursing tightly and it’s obvious to him that she’s only just holding back a smile. “Stop laughing or I’ll-“

“Make castanets out of my testicles?” he finishes for her, playfully mocking her penchant for creative battlefield taunts, and this time she can’t stop herself from smiling, “feed my entrails to the dogs? Maybe knock out my teeth and wear them like a necklace?” 

“Yeah,” she says, and now her smile is accompanied with a bright laugh of her own, “something like that.”

Their laughter fills the yard, bouncing off Skyhold’s tall, towering walls until the whole courtyard is filled with the echoes of laughter. Several people turn to find the source of the noise, smiling indulgently when they see the giggling fools standing at the centre of the training yard.

“No, really,” she pleads, playfully hitting him on his shoulder, “you need to stop laughing or my ego will be as bruised as my body.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry” he says, palms raised at her in apology, “I can’t help it – you’re cute when you’re mad.” 

Her laughter immediately stops and a strange expression falls across her features. She looks shocked, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape as if intending to speak, but then her nose is crinkled and her brows are creased, and Alistair’s not really sure what that means but he’s assuming he’s somehow managed to cause offence with his teasing.

He opens his mouth to start apologising but before he can say anything she asks, “cute? I’m… I'm _cute_?”

It’s endearing really, how utterly baffled she looks when she speaks, and while Alistair is pleased that she doesn’t appear affronted by his comment, he’s also wary that he’s said something he probably shouldn’t have.

“Yeah,” he replies, “you… um… occasionally.”

She responds with a simple, _huh_ , and then that weird expression returns, the one that’s part surprise and part something else.

“Shall we… uh…try again?” he asks, desperately keen to escape this conversation, “I mean, with the sparring.”

There’s a slight pause, a moment of awkward stillness before Bron gives a theatrical groan and twists her face into an expression of exaggerated distress. “Ugh – do we have to?” she moans, “haven’t you humiliated me enough for one evening?”

She’s smiling again, her momentary discomfort seemingly forgotten.

“Come on,” he cajoles gently, “let’s try again. You’re – you’re being too tense. All your movements, they’re stiff, a little slow. It’s why I keep intercepting your blows. Normally you’re running circles around me.”

“Oh right – I’ll just… be less tense then,” she drawls sarcastically, “problem solved!”

“Look – just – _stand there_ ,” he commands, earning him a confused glare from Bron. 

He sets his long-sword down, leaning it against the fence that circles the training ground, then moves to stand behind Bron. She makes to turn around, head craning to try and watch him, but he places his hands firmly on her shoulders to stop her. He can’t see her face but he knows she’s probably scowling.

“Your shoulders are all bunched up,” he says, “no wonder you’re so awkward. Let me try and…”

He gives her shoulders a squeeze, gentle at first but then with increasing pressure, pushing his thumbs into muscle and rolling her shoulders back and down.

Her spine immediately goes stiff and he can feel as much as he can hear her sudden, sharp intake of air. He knows that she’s not overly fond of physical contact, and he respects that, but she’s been so different recently, so much more tactile than he ever would have expected from her, and he thought she wouldn’t mind the intrusion on her personal space given that he was just trying to help. He realises now that he’s made a mistake and quickly pulls back his hands.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, “I shouldn’t have – I should have asked before I…”

“It’s all right,” she says quickly, interrupting his sputtering apology and turning slightly to look at him from over her shoulder. “I was… surprised, is all. But it felt – it was… it was good.”

Oh – well, _good_.

Encouraged by her words, he returns his hands to her shoulders, working the pads of his fingers into tense muscles until he can feel the knots unravel. She relaxes into his touch, lets out a shuddering breath. It’s a quiet sound but… _enticing_ , and it makes his cheeks burn.

She’s only wearing a thin shirt, her jacket having been shed a long time ago during their sparring session, and he can feel the warmth of her skin through the fabric. It hadn’t occurred to him how intimate it would be, touching her with only a thin slip of fabric between his hands and the smooth expanse of her back.

Her hair is pulled up into a messy bun atop her head, revealing the long, elegant column of her neck. It would be so easy, he thinks, to press his lips to the juncture between shoulder and neck. To drag his tongue up the line of her neck and taste the sharp saltiness of her sweat-slicked skin. He just needs to… _lean forward_.

He steps back – surprised by this sudden, burning thought.

_Where in the void did that come from?_

“Better?” he asks, voice cracking like an awkward teenager.

“Ugh-um, yes,” she replies, uncharacteristically inarticulate, “much better, thank you.”

“So shall we try again?” he says as he steps around to face her once more.

“Of course,” she says, nodding officiously.

He thinks she might be blushing but she spins around before he can get a good look at her face.

As he watches her walk across the training ground, he can feel his hands tingling oddly, the phantom warmth of her skin lingering in his palms. He tries to school his thoughts, to push aside his more… _ungentlemanly_ thoughts so he can concentrate on their sparring. But now that his traitorous mind has started thinking of Bron, he can’t seem to stop it.

At the other end of the training ground, Bron rolls her shoulders before falling into a ready position, body pitched forward and weight resting on the pads of her feet. She is poised, her well-muscled body held perfectly still, and Alistair is finding it impossible to ignore just how… _striking_ she looks.

Her skin is damp with sweat, glowing in the early evening sun like burnished bronze. And he realises that his internal monologue has come to resemble the worst parts of a Swords and Shields novel, but he really can’t help it. Because Bron’s eyes really do sparkle.

Not that it matters of course.

So what if Bron is beautiful? He knows _plenty_ of beautiful women.

Leliana is beautiful, and Hawke is as well, and their looks had never impacted on his friendship with them. Why should Bron be any different?

Except – somehow – Bron _is_ different.

Leliana’s features are more delicate and elegant than Bron’s but her smiles don’t light up her face the way Bron’s do. And Hawke’s figure is taller and more slender than Bron’s but she doesn’t move with the same grace as Bron, doesn’t carry herself with the same dignity.

Other women may be beautiful but Bron was _so much more_ than that.

_Oh shit._

A thought needles at the front of his mind, sudden but insistent.

 _He cares for her_.

He cares for her more than anyone else he has ever known.

No – It’s worse than that.

He loves her.

 _Oh Maker, he loves her_.

And it’s not just because she’s there or because she’s somehow managed to put up with him for so long. He loves her determination, her unwavering strength of character. He loves her willingness to listen and her quiet thoughtfulness. Even the stupid, little things – the way her fingers move when she braids her hair, the way she tilts her head to the side when reading a map – he loves it all.

In fact, his feelings seem so obvious to him now that he’s not entirely sure why he hasn’t realised them before.

And he’s afraid. Not because he loves her – that bit’s actually quite liberating now that he’s admitted it – but because he knows, _he knows_ , she doesn’t love him back. She _can’t_ love him back. Bron’s practical, she’s sensible and down-to-earth, and while he’s sure she values his friendship, she’s never given any indication that she wants anything more from him. And he knows, too, that he’s going to ruin their friendship. It’s inevitable really – he’s going to say or do something stupid, he’s going to let her down, and then that will be the end of it.

Oh Maker, what in the void is he going to do?

* * *

Bron rests lightly on her feet, weight centred and muscles held taut in readiness. With her rapier clasped firmly in her hand, she waits. Alistair picks up his long-sword from where it rests against the training yard’s fence, pivots it in his hands to feel the weight, then starts stalking toward her. Still, she waits.

Leliana had always taught her to wait – to observe her enemy and only strike when the right opportunity presented itself.

And so she watches, and she waits.

He brings his weapon up as he nears her, raising his arm to bridge the space between them with a broad swipe of his blade. Bron takes in a steadying breath and then, finally, she moves. She darts forward, feet bounding soundlessly across the grass. She dashes to the left, spinning gracefully out of the way when Alistair brings his sword down, then circles behind him. He raises his sword to try another hit but before he has the chance, she lunges forward until the tip of her rapier makes contact with Alistair’s side.

He looks down at where Bron’s rapier presses against the fabric of his shirt. 

“It is a good hit,” he comments, smiling gently.

She smiles back. It’s very clearly _not_ a good hit; were he wearing armour it would have deflected her attack with ease. She should have aimed higher, for his relatively unprotected armpit. But she’s had a bad day and she appreciates Alistair’s attempt at lifting her spirits, even if it is painfully transparent.

“Shall we call it a day then?” she asks, looking up at him imploringly, “please let me bask in my small victory.”

“Deal,” he says, chuckling softly, “how about we bask in your victory with a couple of pints?”

She nods enthusiastically in agreement. After the disastrous sparring session she has just had, she definitely needs a good drink – and probably something a fair bit stronger than beer.

She walks to the edge of the training ground to return her rapier to its sheath and then tugs at the tie holding her hair in place until the thick, black strands come loose and fall in sweaty clumps down her back. She cards her fingers through her hair to take out the worst of the knots (she’d need a proper comb to make it look actually presentable) then starts to roughly braid it over one shoulder.

Fussing with her hair, she watches as Alistair walks toward a low-lying bench next to where she stands. He places his sword carefully on the bench and then lifts the ladle from a nearby pail of water, eagerly slurping to slake his thirst. Once satisfied, he lowers his hands to the hem of his shirt and then, in one smooth motion, he lifts the shirt over his head and drops it on top of the bench. He scoops up handfuls of water from the pail, splashing them first into his face and then over his chest, washing away the sweat and grime from their sparring session.

Bron is aware that she’s staring, tells herself that she should probably look away, but then she can’t seem to draw her gaze away from the muscles on his back, transfixed by every flex and stretch each time he moves. She’s seen him topless before, of course. They’ve been travelling together for months now, in too close quarters for propriety. But something seems different now.

Maybe it’s the water, trickling down the planes of his back, catching the light of the setting sun as it inches down toward the waistband of his trousers. Some wicked part of her wonders what it would be like to reach out and touch him, to trace the rivulets of water criss-crossing his back, to feel the heat of his skin beneath her fingertips.

She’s suddenly reminded of earlier, of his hands on her shoulders, his fingers pressing into taut muscles, and a blush comes roaring into her cheeks. It had been a surprise, yes, such a bold gesture of… well… _intimacy_. But then it had also been… nice. _Really nice_. The warmth of his hands, the strength in his fingers as they worked out the knots. She had wondered then what else those strong fingers could do.

Suddenly he looks at her from over his shoulder, and there’s not enough time to school her features into her usual façade of nonchalance.

He smirks as he straightens, turning to face her more fully but making no move to don his shirt again.

“Seen something you like?” he quips.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she immediately retorts, pulling her features into a disapproving frown.

“Then why are you ogling?” he needles further, his smirk widening into a broad, smug grin.

“I am _not_ ogling,” she insists, though she wishes her tone were sharper, “I was just – _your scars_. I was wondering… I was wondering how you got so many.”

It’s a poor lie, and she can tell from the way his eyebrows dip that he is not convinced. But then he nods, seemingly willing to play along with Bron’s flimsy excuse for staring, and his grin thankfully softens into something a little less smug.

He steps closer to her, and something in Bron’s chest skitters erratically as he approaches. It’s not something that Bron is used to, this odd fluttering below her ribcage, but it’s been happening with increasing frequency recently and Bron’s not sure how to make it go away.

When Alistair stops he’s barely a foot away from her, and her brain helpfully points out how easy it would be for her to just reach out and run her hands across his chest. She tells her brain to shut up.

“This one is from a hurlock blade,” he says, pointing to a short, fat gash on his side, “and this one is from a wolf,” he continues, tracing a pale semi-circle on his forearm.

“And… this one?” she asks, raising a hand toward a line of raised bumps across his stomach. For a moment she leaves her fingers hovering just above the scar, barely a whisper above his skin. But then she feels a surge of boldness, and maybe a surge of something a little more primal as well, and she presses her fingertips against his flesh and lets them rake over each bump. She can feel him shiver as her fingers moves down, and she likes to think that the shiver is for her but suspects it’s just because he’s ticklish.

“A dragon,” he replies, and the breathiness in his voice makes Bron’s toes curl pleasantly, “encountered in the Korcari Wilds.”

“A _dragon_ , really?” she gasps, and as much as she likes to keep her composure at all times, she can’t keep the reverent awe out of her tone. Leliana had told her many tales of dragons over the years, sometimes myths, sometimes anecdotes of her own dragon encounters during the Blight. They were such extraordinary creatures, bones like metal, spitting fire. To face such a creature and come out alive was a feat that Bron couldn’t help but find remarkable.

Alistair bursts out laughing, a bellowing chortle that seems far too loud for the intimate space between them. Bron startles at the sudden sound.

“No, not really,” he answers between wheezing laughs, “I fell out of a barn loft as a child. Landed on a rake.”

She can’t help but burst out laughing at his admission, her own hearty chuckles joining his raucous laughter. Of course it was a bloody rake – _the daft bugger_. She can just imagine him now; a chubby-cheeked child with mussed curls and muddy hands, rolling around with the mabari in the barn, toppling from the loft in a moment of foolish enthusiasm.

Still chuckling, he reclaims his shirt from the bench and pulls it over his head.

Bron’s surprised at how keenly she resents it.

“So what about you?” he says as he guides her toward the Herald’s Rest with a gentle push of his hand against her elbow.

“Me?” she asks, confused by his question.

“Any scars?”

“No, none,” she replies without pause. 

He looks surprised at that, brows furrowed and mouth curled. “Not a single one? How have you managed that?”

“What can I say? I’m just that good,” she replies with a nonchalant shrug and a proud little smirk, “unlike some careless people, _I_ never let anyone get close enough to leave a mark.”

He chuckles, “is that it? You’re just _that good_?”

She hums in assent as she nods.

“What about just moments ago when I was repeatedly knocking your ass to the ground? Were you just _that good_ then?”

“It was a temporary lapse – I assure you it won’t happen again,” she says, and she somehow manages to sound imperious despite the lingering embarrassment she feels at having performed so poorly during their sparring session, “next time I’ll thrash you just as thoroughly as I usually do.”

“Is that so?” he asks with another laugh.

“Absolutely.”

“Well then – how about we test that theory out right now?” he says, eyebrows wagging challengingly, “Come on, let’s go – back into the training yard, _right now_!”

He lunges toward her, arms outstretched to grab her around the waist but she manages to dance back in time, letting lose a childish squeal so out of character that she clamps a hand over her mouth as if trying to push the sound back in. He tries again, reaching toward her with a roaring laugh, and this time there’s a frisson of heat as his fingers skirt across her hip as she twists out of reach. It leaves her skin tingling, the touch of his fingertips still burning even through the fabric of her trousers.

She turns and runs, tearing up a nearby staircase and dashing along Skyhold’s battlements. Alistair follows close behind, taking each step two at a time to catch up with her. She giggles excitedly as she runs, darting between bemused Inquisition guards, always looking behind her to keep an eye on Alistair.

She hasn’t behaved like this since she was a child, charging through the streets of Highever with her brothers, snickering and screaming and just generally proving a nuisance. Her mother had never approved of childish games and had persuaded Bron that she was too old for playing long before she really was. It’s oddly freeing now, to regain that sense of liberty, that foolish exuberance that she’d denied herself from far too young an age.

When Alistair does finally catch her, he wraps an arm around her waist and lifts her easily from her feet, spinning her around before holding her tight against his chest. She’s breathing deeply from the exertion, her chest heaving against his with every laboured breath she takes, and she wonders whether he can feel her heartbeat racing where their bodies are pressed together. 

“Got you!” he announces, a pleased smile on his lips.

“Yes, yes you have,” she pants breathlessly. And she realises in a moment of startling clarity that she really means it.

Because he _does_ have her. He has her friendship, her loyalty. She is devoted to Alistair in a way that she never could have expected when they first met. She would accompany him through any trial, would fight any foe to keep him safe. And she suspects that there’s more to her feelings than mere devotion, mere loyalty. But she’s never known such deep or complex emotions before and she’s struggling to really understand them.

There’s a part of her that wants to tell him. And there’s a far louder part that tells her that that would be a terrible idea. Bron is not good at emotions, not good at having them and definitely not good at expressing them. And she likes to be composed, she likes to be in control, and admitting that she has feelings would leave her vulnerable in a way that could potentially lead to some real harm.

The Wardens need freeing from Corypheus’s thrall, the Inquisition needs her, _Alistair needs her_ , and she won’t be weak for them, _can’t_ be weak for them.

Maybe she’ll tell him later. Maybe – when Thedas is safe and the Inquisition is disbanded – she can work through her feelings with him. But until then, she’s going to keep quiet, she’s going to keep in control, and she’s going to keep him safe.

“Come on,” he says cheerfully, settling her back down on the parapet and giving a nod of his head toward the Herald’s Rest, “let’s get you that drink.” And then he smiles at her, wide and toothy and so painfully earnest, and her heart is skittering again, that excited patter of anticipation that seems to happen every time she’s with him.

Oh Maker, what in the void is she going to do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	12. Quiet Before the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke gives Alistair some real talk on the eve before Adamant.

The floorboards creak as Hawke walks across the Keep’s wooden walkway and she winces apologetically; in the muted stillness of the courtyard it sounds like a cannon shot. A few heads turn her way but they’re soon drawn back to their fires or their friends, or whatever other distraction they’ve chosen for this last night before the final march to Adamant.

It’s cold. The usual searing heat of the Western Approach having fled as soon as the sun dipped below the horizon, and with a clear and cloudless sky above, there’s nothing to stop the warmth from leaching into the night. There are few places in the Keep where the Inquisition’s soldiers can seek out warmth, no barracks, no mess, only a few ramshackle tents hastily assembled when the Venatori were driven out. And so the soldiers huddle together in small groups, taking whatever heat they can from small, improvised fires.

 _It’s a dismal sight_ , Hawke thinks while pacing along the high, suspended walkways, but then Griffon Wing Keep was not built for comfort. The Keep is only a small outpost, built by the Wardens to support the larger fortress nearby and probably only intended for short visits by small groups of Wardens. Whoever had built it had probably never imagined that a whole army would be housed within its walls. 

Still – Hawke is impressed that the morale among the Inquisition’s troops seems relatively high, all things considered. She’s heard little complaining so far – Varric’s habitual grousing aside – and while conversations are hardly lively, a pleasant camaraderie seems to permeate every small group of soldiers as they tend to their weapons and chat quietly amongst themselves.

Hawke quickly grows bored of her pacing (after all the view from the Keep’s suspended walkways is hardly inspiring when the landscape is cloaked in impenetrable darkness) and gives only a cursory glance in the direction of Adamant before making her way toward the lower levels of the Keep and, hopefully, some camaraderie of her own.

She finds Varric and Alistair huddled around a small fire in the Keep’s main courtyard, but while Varric is talking in his usual animated manner, Alistair doesn’t really seem to be listening. He’s nodding along with Varric’s story, muttering the occasional _uhuh_ when Varric pauses, but his eyes are very obviously drawn to the fire and the dancing shapes of red and gold within.

She can’t really blame him for being distracted; he’s been searching for the Wardens for so long, stitching together every possible hint and scrap of information, and now that he’s finally, _finally_ found them, he learns that they’re enthralled to an evil, ancient Magister and dicking around with blood magic. Whatever internal monologue Alistair is wrangling with, it’s probably pretty pissed right about now.

Everyone is wary of what horrors they might find inside the walls of Adamant but few have as vested an interest as Alistair. He may insist that he’s no longer a Warden but it’s clear to Hawke that he still feels a keen connection to them; they are, after all, the only family Alistair has ever really known.

“Hawke,” Varric says in greeting as she nears, “how was the walk?”

“Piss poor, to be honest,” she replies, “can’t see a bloody thing from the ramparts.”

When Hawke sits down cross-legged beside the fire Varric immediately hands her a mug. It smells mostly like coffee, although there’s a sharp, sweet aroma that suggests Varric has doused it with something a little harder. She takes a long, indulgent sip and enjoys the burning sensation as the drink slips down her throat and warms her from the inside out.

“So what were you two talking about?” Hawke asks when it’s clear that no one else is going to speak first.

“I was telling Alistair about that time you slayed the High Dragon in the Bone Pit,” Varric replies.

“Ah yes, I like that story,” she says before taking another long sip of her drink, “it’s far more exciting than the reality – which is that I spent most of the time running around trying to not be set on fire while Aveline did most of the hard work.”

“Yes, reality has a way of ruining all the greatest stories,” Varric says with a dry chuckle and Hawke is surprised when Alistair chuckles softly as well; apparently he _is_ listening.

“So why were you two talking about dragons and how great I am at slaying them?” Hawke asks.

“Varric said ‘there are worse things than marching into battle against a fortress full of Wardens and a demon army’ and I told him to give me some examples,” Alistair says and Hawke can’t help but let slip an unladylike snort of laughter – his Varric impression is surprisingly good.

“Look, Snowflake, I was just trying to lighten the mood! I didn’t realise I was going to have to provide references!” Varric gripes with an exaggerated shrug of his shoulders.

“Spiders,” interrupts Hawke before Varric can complain any further, “if Adamant was full of spiders, that’s worse than an army of Wardens and demons.”

“Spiders? _Really?_ ” Varric cries in disbelief, “you’ve taken on dragons, darkspawn and a wide variety of demons – not to mention facing the Arishok in single combat – and _spiders_ are the worst thing you can think of?”

“Look – I’ve faced some fucking big spiders in my time, Varric!” Hawke snaps back, “I stand by my answer.” There’s a momentary pause while Hawke takes another sip of her drink. “Spiders – or Aveline,” she adds.

“A whole fortress full of Avelines? Now there’s a thought…” Varric muses with a thoughtful scratch of his chin.

“We wouldn’t stand a chance,” Alistair says with a smile and Hawke can’t help but nod emphatically in agreement.

Aveline’s image surges unbidden to the forefront of Hawke’s thoughts and she tries desperately to push it away. Now is not the time for nostalgia. Thinking of Aveline, being with Varric – it just reminds her of all the things that she’s lost, the people and a place to which she may never return. But wallowing in memories is just a distraction; a distraction she can ill afford with a battle looming on the horizon.

“I miss Aveline,” she says before she can stop herself and she immediately scowls at having let the admission slip.

Varric nods solemnly, staring into his cup, and even Alistair looks a bit wistful. He and Aveline had quickly become friends during the short time that Hawke had fit Alistair in with her little gang, before he’d got his first mercenary job and left Kirkwall. They both had the same burning sense of righteousness, that strong sense of justice that Hawke only possessed in Varric’s stories.

“Well on that depressing note,” Varric says as he stands from the floor, brushing his hands across his trousers to dust off the dirt, “I’m going to call it a night. Bianca’s waiting for me in my tent and I don’t want to keep her up.”

Hawke rolls her eyes at Varric’s comment; his relationship with his crossbow has always bewildered her. But despite his attempt at humour, there’s a shadow of concern resting in his expression and Hawke is not comfortable with just leaving it there.

“Hey!” she calls out as Varric walks away. He stops and looks over his shoulder. “We’re going to be all right, you know – I’m the fucking Champion of Kirkwall! _What’s the worst that could happen_?”

He shakes his head at her endearingly, casting her a withering glare for having asked something so ridiculous ( _tempting fate_ , she knows he’s thinking). But she can see his shoulders bobbing slightly from laughter and there’s a tug of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“Just like old times, right Hawke?” he says, voice laced with affection.

And while she can appreciate the sentiment, Hawke can’t help but marvel at the sheer absurdity of Varric’s statement. Because this is _not at all_ like old times.

Hawke has done some pretty crazy shit in her life: battled crazed Templars, fought through a city beset by Qunari warriors, fallen in love with a runaway ex-slave with rage in his eyes and Lyrium under his skin. But none of these compare to laying siege to a heavily fortified fortress to face the Venatori, the Wardens and a shitload of demons.

Hawke isn’t a soldier; she’s an apostate with a big mouth and poor self-preservation instincts.

“Yeah, Varric, just like old times,” she says, smiling at him with all the optimism and encouragement that she can muster. He gives her a nod, smiling fondly in return, then turns to find his tent.

With Varric gone, it feels a little colder. Hawke takes several long, deep gulps of coffee to make up for it. Across from her, Alistair is back to staring at the fire again. She frowns in disapproval. He shouldn’t be here, lost in thoughts and staring at nothing. He’s about to march into battle, maybe to his death, he should be enjoying these last few moments with his friends, reminiscing or joking or just – _something_!

“Stop it, Ali,” she snaps, “stop… _thinking_.”

“Excuse me?” he squeaks, head jerking up from the fire.

“You need to stop _thinking_ ,” she repeats, “tomorrow we march on Adamant. And I don’t know what we’re going to find there but I bet you it’ll be fucked up. So – for tonight – you need to laugh and joke and… _be with people_. Don’t waste these last moments of peace on lonely introspection.”

“I was thinking of the Wardens,” he says quietly, “I was thinking of how much this all reminds me of Ostagar, that final night before we faced the darkspawn.” 

“Well stop it – right now!” she orders, eying him sharply.

He looks a little startled at her barked command but then a cautious smile breaks out across his face and he nods. _Good – he understands her_.

“I’m sorry,” he says, nodding slowly, “you’re right. You’re _absolutely_ right. There’s no point thinking about the past now.”

There’s a pause as he looks around, eyes flitting haphazardly as if he’s searching for a topic of conversation and is hoping to find one lying around their little corner of the courtyard

“So… um… do you think you’ll stay with the Inquisition?” he asks, then adds, ”after Adamant I mean.”

Hawke smiles at his stilted attempt at making conversation then gives a frustrated little sigh while shaking her head.

“No, Ali, not me,” she says, “you should go _talk with Bron_.”

He furrows his brow in confusion, clearly baffled as to how Bron fits into all this.

“Bron? Why?”

Hawke sighs again, this time a little louder and accompanied with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “Because… because if you don’t tell her how you feel then you’ll regret it, Alistair. And if something happens tomorrow – if it all goes to shit – then I don’t want your last moments in this life to be filled with regret.”

Surprise now joins the confusion on his face and Alistair’s mouth opens and shuts a few times as if struggling to find the words he needs. “I don’t know what you mea-“

“Don’t,” she snaps, cutting him off before he can come up with some poor denial, “don’t try to lie to me – it’s _obvious_ you care about her. Care a great deal.”

Now he just looks a bit panicked. “It is?”

“Yes.”

“To everyone?”

“ _Yes_.”

He looks back toward the fire as if expecting some sort of revelation there. Then he shakes his head and lets out a thoughtful, _huh_.

“Oh come on, Ali!” she cries, and she doesn’t know whether she should laugh or weep at how ridiculously oblivious he seems, “the way you look at her – it’s like something from a bard’s ballad.”

He finally raises his head from the fire and for a moment Hawke thinks he’s about to deny everything. But then he just nods his head with a sigh.

“ _If_ I say something –,” he begins, placing far too much emphasis on the word ‘if’, “do you think… do you think she feels the same way back?”

“Honestly? I have no idea,” Hawke says with a shrug, “I don’t know whether you’ve noticed but Bron’s pretty hard to read.”

He nods in agreement.

“But, if you ask me, the very fact that she’s here is pretty telling,” she continues.

“What do you mean?”

“Bron’s a _spy_ , not a soldier. She doesn’t have to be here. In fact she almost certainly shouldn’t be. So _why is she here_? If you ask me, she’s here for you.”

His eyes widen with momentary shock before softening into something more pensive. After a few minutes of thoughtful silence, a small smile starts to reach up to his cheeks. Whether he believes Hawke or not, her suggestion that Bron has come to Adamant just for him is clearly an appealing one.

 _The sentimental fool_ , Hawke thinks, though the less cynical part of her can’t help but be pleased at how happy he looks.

“Right – I’m going to… I’m going to-“ he trails off, looking lost.

“Go?”

“Yes – exactly,” he says, “I’m going to… um… go.” He stands up abruptly, eyes scanning the courtyard as if expecting to see Bron just standing there. After a moment of bemused hesitation, he starts picking his way across the courtyard, weaving between the huddled groups of Inquisition soldiers.

Suddenly he stops, as if he’s forgotten something vitally important, and turns to hurry back to where Hawke is still sitting cross-legged next to the fire. He leans forward and kisses her on the crown of her head.

“Thanks, Hawke,” he murmurs into her hair before stepping back and hurrying back across the courtyard and up a set of stone stairs.

She watches him go, stumbling hastily up the stairs and further into the Keep. _He’s a good man_ , she thinks, _and he deserves to be happy_.

And perhaps he can find some of that happiness with Bron.

Hawke may not know Bron as well as Alistair does but she is strangely confident that Bron returns Alistair’s affections. After all, she’s seen the way they look at each other. Alistair looks at Bron with awe, like she’s larger than life, a glittering hero, bathed in gold. But when Bron looks at Alistair, she doesn’t look at Alistair like he’s a hero; she looks at him like he’s home. It’s a different kind of affection, quieter but no less intense.

As she sips on the last few dregs of luke-warm coffee, Hawke’s mind drifts to thoughts of Fenris. More than anything, she wishes that he were with her now (although, to be honest, she’s also glad that he’s not – she’d left Fenris with only a hastily scrawled note to explain her intentions and if he were to suddenly arrive at Griffon Wing Keep, there would probably be a lot of yelling). She can imagine him in their small cabin at the edge of Wycome, repairing his armour perhaps or, more likely, reading a book in his favourite worn armchair. They had not lived in the cabin for long, and they probably wouldn’t be able to stay there much longer, but it was theirs and it was home and it was _perfect_. Once this was all over she’d find them somewhere more permanent, somewhere the title of Champion would not follow her, and she’d build them a home together, maybe even a family.

It is a nice thought, even if she doubts its feasibility. But she keeps hold of the fantasy as she makes her way to her tent, lets it take seed and grow as she curls up in her bedroll.

Despite the impending battle, Hawke has good dreams that night.

* * *

Alistair hurries up the staircase, although he’s not really sure where he’s going. He hasn’t seen Bron in several hours, not since they’d been discussing the impending battle with Eleri and her advisors in the Keep’s central tower. He knows she won’t be in the main courtyard; there are already too many people there, all the Inquisition troops squeezed into a space far too small for an entire army. She would have sought out somewhere with solitude, somewhere away from people. 

He works his way up through the Keep, heading higher up the building to where he suspects there will be fewer people. As he passes the doorway to the central tower, he ducks his head in to see whether she’d loitered after their meeting. He’s disappointed to see only Eleri inside with the Inquisition’s Commander, Cullen. 

They’re standing together at the other side of the room, heads bowed together as they talk in hushed tones. The wide table next to them is strewn with maps and Alistair assumes at first that they’re finalising a few more battle plans. But then he notices that they’re holding hands, their fingers laced together, and while he can’t hear what they’re saying, he can see Eleri’s soft smile and the tint of pink spreading across her cheeks, and even he can deduce what they’re talking about.

 _Huh – so Hawke’s right_ , he thinks. The eve of battle _should_ be spent with the people you care about.

When his methodical searching yields no sight of Bron, Alistair starts to feel oddly nervous. Surely she can’t have gone anywhere? But as he stalks across one of the Keep’s topmost parapets, he comes to an abrupt halt when he hears something unusual, a quiet murmuring – no, _singing_.

It could be one of the Inquisition soldiers, of course, trying to distract themselves as they patrol the battlements. But then Alistair’s sure he’s heard the tune before – an old Orlesian lullaby that he’s heard Bron singing many times during their journey to reunite with the Inquisition.

He follows the sound to the high wall just ahead of him and when he peers over the wall, he spots Bron sitting on a wide ledge on the outside of the Keep walls. It must have once been a weapons platform of sorts, although the weapon in question is now long gone. Robbed of its intended function, it now serves no purpose except as a hiding place for anyone brave enough to risk clambering over.

It’s a rather daunting sight, Bron perched primly on this ledge towering high above the sandy stone below. She looks so small silhouetted against the open night sky, this tiny figure surrounded by endless blackness, and he fears that only the smallest gust of wind would be enough to send her tumbling to certain death below. 

At first he thinks it’s an odd place to hide, this precarious perch so high above the ground. But then he remembers the ease with which she climbed into Vigil’s Keep in search of Warden secrets and he wonders how often a young Bron clambered up trees and walls in search of some solitude from her raucous brothers. It doesn’t actually look _too_ hard. Maybe if he holds onto that shield carved into the stone, and then braces his legs against the crenelated edging decorating the side of the walls. No – it can’t be _that_ hard.

He thinks that perhaps he should leave her, she seems so content sitting on the ledge singing quietly to herself, but then he remembers Hawke’s words – _no one should be alone on the eve of battle_ \- and decides that she could probably use his company just as much as he is craving hers.

Carefully, gingerly, Alistair swings his legs over the wall and shimmies along until he can lower himself onto the ledge. With his hands clutching tightly to the wall’s decorative coving, he lowers himself down until he’s sitting next to Bron, legs hanging over the yawning abyss below.

She looks surprised to see him, and maybe a little amused too (he may have climbed to the ledge successfully but he doubts he looked particularly elegant while doing it).

“You found me,” she says when he’s safely settled, and he’s pleased to see the gentle smile playing on her lips as she speaks. His intrusion on her solitude may have been unsolicited but it doesn’t appear unwelcome.

“Yes I just – I saw your feet dangling,” he lies. During their many months of travel together, Bron had never sang in front of him; had only ever sang quietly to herself when she thought him out of ear-shot. Clearly this was a talent she’d rather keep private and Alistair would not rob her of her privacy.

“Nice view,” he quips as he gestures toward the vast blackness that blankets the Western Approach, hiding every sand dune and rock formation from sight.

She laughs, although it’s a lot weaker than he would like. “It was nice when I first came up here, peaceful,” she explains, “but now it’s beginning to get a bit creepy. All this darkness.”

“It could be worse; there could be spiders,” he says, smiling as he remembers his recent conversation with Hawke and Varric.

“Spiders?” she asks with evident confusion.

“Sorry – it’s a…. just a bad joke.”

“Ah – and do you tell any other kind?” she teases with a wicked curl of her lips.

He frowns at her theatrically in response then starts to lift himself up from the ledge. “Well – fine – if you’re going to be rude about my jokes, I guess I’ll just go.”

“No!” she cries with surprising ferocity, one hand snatching out to grab him by the forearm, “ _please_ stay.”

He’s surprised by the tenderness in her plea and immediately sits down again on the ledge. He places his hand over hers where it rests on his arm. “Of course I’ll stay,” he says, and he feels a little thrill of hopefulness that she appears so desperate for him to remain at her side. 

Some of the panic dissipates from her face and her posture relaxes to lean against the wall behind them. He notices that she makes no attempt to remove her hand from where it rests on his arm, and so he makes no move to withdraw his hand either. And so they sit, bodies pressed together side-by-side and hands holding tightly to one another.

They sit in silence for a while, the kind of comfortable, companionable silence that has become a staple of their relationship. He’s tempted to just enjoy the moment as it is, to simply take comfort from Bron’s presence and keep his feelings to himself. But then he can picture Hawke’s pointed stare in his mind, quietly judging him for not having the courage to say what he needs to say, and he decides that he just needs to be honest with Bron. However she reacts – well – he’ll just have to take it in stride.

He takes a deep, fortifying breath before saying, “Bron I need to talk to you – I…”

He stops talking when he notices Bron’s stricken expression. She doesn’t seem to have noticed him speaking, her eyes instead staring intently into the distance. Her brows are pulled low and tight, and her lips are drawn thin with tension.

She looks _terrified_.

Alistair’s seen Bron angry and he’s seen her sad. He’s seen her stone-cold eyes as she’s slain opponents with a merciless stab of her rapier. He’s seen her tears for the friends she thought lost with the destruction of Haven. But he has never – _never_ – seen her look afraid.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, suddenly concerned.

She tries to wave away his question, throwing him a brittle smile in a poor attempt to relieve his concern. He just narrows his eyes at her, staring intently. _Tell me, Bron_.

She gives a resigned sigh. “I’m… scared,” she admits with a small voice, “I’m just – _this_. Fighting off bandits is one thing but – this is an army, Alistair. What can I do against an army?”

“Well, _you alone_ can’t really do anything,” he says, attempting to keep his voice light and playful, “that’s why we brought an army of our own.”

“I’m being serious, Alistair,” she reprimands gently, hand squeezing into his arm, “this isn’t a fight, it’s a _battle_. I’m not sure I can – I’m not sure what I’ll… I’m afraid. _Really_ afraid.”

“It’s going to be fine,” he says, and he’s trying to comfort himself as much as he is her, “just… I’ll be by your side the whole time. We’ve done so much together already. I’m sure we can overcome this one… last challenge.”

“One last challenge?” she says doubtfully, “maybe this is the final challenge for saving the Wardens. But then we have to save the rest of Thedas. Defeat Corypheus, end this war between the mages and Templars. There are still… so many more challenges ahead.”

“Well then we’ll overcome them too – just like we have everything else.”

“Together?” she asks hopefully.

“Absolutely,” he says, then adds tentatively, “if you’re willing to put up with me.”

He can feel her shuffling slightly along the ledge, pushing her body even closer against his. He lifts his arm to give her more space then drops it around her shoulders, wrapping his arm around her and pulling her closer until she’s held snugly against his side. She lets her head drop until it’s resting on his chest.

“Well I suppose I can keep you around a little longer,” she murmurs into his shirt, voice suddenly sounding weary, “I have become… _rather fond_ of you.”

 _Rather fond?_ Well it’s not particularly sterling praise but it’s certainly better than nothing. He’ll take it.

Bron’s held so closely against his side that she’s almost sitting in his lap. There’s something profoundly intimate about the embrace, as well as the solitude afforded them by their hiding place. Alistair relishes in her proximity, the warmth of her body contrasting with the cool, crispness of the night air.

“Oh wait,” she suddenly says, craning her head back to look up at him, “earlier – you said that you needed to talk about something,”

“It’s… it can wait,” he says, deciding to forego any confession of his feelings for now.

Because everything _can_ wait. Awkward conversations can wait. Possible romantic rejection can wait. Hell – the sunrise can wait and with it the impending battle against the Wardens. Everything and everyone can wait – all Alistair wants is this one moment with Bron held tight in his arms, her warm body curled against his own. This moment is perfect, and even if he dies tomorrow, he will not regret it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	13. It's Not the Fall that Kills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Woah, boy, this chapter is long! The Inquisition finally reaches Adamant and stabbing ensues. In fact, this chapter is about 90% stabbing and 10% people complaining about how tired they are from all the stabbing.

The battering ram smashes against Adamant’s towering wooden door. It shakes, the oak planks straining against the iron studs, but holds. The Inquisition soldiers try again, heaving the great, steal-capped ram back before letting it slam into the door with another sonorous thud. A canopy protects the battering ram from the Wardens’ assault above, and the Inquisition soldiers’ shields are held aloft to protect them from the seemingly endless barrage of arrows and rocks, yet the Inquisition’s numbers are dwindling as Warden projectiles pierce through armour and flesh. 

Standing behind the siege weapon, Eleri raises her bow and unleashes a volley into the row of Wardens lining the parapet above the gate. There’s a chorus of shrieks as each arrow finds its mark, then the lifeless Wardens flop over the crenelated walls, falling bonelessly to the ground like ragdolls. Bron can hear the sickening crunch as their bodies hit stone, can hear the sound of Inquisition arrows flying as another volley is released into the gatehouse, and then the distinctive, louder thunk of Varric’s crossbow.

Bron’s frustrated, thrumming with unspent energy. Lacking any ability with a ranged weapon, she’s forced to wait, forced to stand impotently behind the battering ram until it’s her turn to charge the enemy. It’s not that she _wants_ to charge – far from it. Bron wants more than anything to just… turn around and _run_. The battle is so much… louder than she ever would have anticipated. The screams of the dying, the scrape of metal on metal, the roar of blistering fire, a great cacophony of senses that Bron wants to quiet.

But the waiting is the worst. She feels weak, powerless amongst the chaos.

Her only comfort is Alistair’s looming presence beside her, familiar and strong. Noticing her discomfort, he steps closer.

“Just stay by my side,” he shouts, pitching his voice so that it carries over the racket.

She nods to show her understanding, though she’s not sure he can see it. His eyes are focused on the battering ram and the tall wooden gate ahead. He’s waiting for his moment, like the well-trained soldier that he is.

Suddenly there’s a pop following by a long cracking as the ram splinters wood and bends metal. _Almost there,_ Bron thinks. The ram is hefted back once more before slamming into the door. Then twice and a third time. At the fourth mighty swing of the battering ram, the planks of the great gate at last come shattering forward and there’s a strange lull, a momentary stillness, before someone gives a rallying cry and the Inquisition troops surge forward.

Eleri moves with her troops, her companions following close behind her, and Bron waits only a second to look at Alistair’s determined expression before charging into the fray. The wrecked door now hangs limply from its hinges and the soldiers run hastily into the narrow courtyard directly behind the gateway, shields at the ready to defend themselves against the Wardens inevitably awaiting them.

As soon as they’ve cleared the gateway, Eleri, Varric, Solas and a smattering of Inquisition archers take strategic positions at one end of the courtyard, using their ranged weapons to pick off the Wardens from a distance. Cassandra, Alistair and Bron charge with the rest of the Inquisition soldiers directly toward the enemy line, weapons held aloft and ready to engage.

With strong, confident thrusts, Bron cuts into the Warden lines, her rapier finding soft, yielding flesh between the silverite plates of Warden armour. There’s a rhythm to it, a timpani of metal on metal as the two sides clash. She’d been expecting the courtyard to be filled with mages, demons even, but this front line seems to consist mainly of warriors. It’s easier than she’d anticipated, felling the Warden warriors one-by-one, and she feels almost guilty for feeling relief.

A Warden warrior charges forward with dual daggers scything the air in tight circles. Timing her attack carefully, Bron thrusts her rapier upwards, catching both daggers mid-slice. She pushes back with all her might but her strength is nothing compared to the heft of the Warden and he does not budge. With a feral cry, she kicks him in the knee. It’s not an elegant move, certainly not sportsmanlike, but good form seems unimportant now. The Warden doubles over in pain and Bron slashes her rapier across the unfortunate man’s neck. A curtain of blood sprays from the wound, gruesome in its exuberance, before the aimless corpse drops idly to the ground. 

There’s no time to mourn the man who was once Warden, who once served duty and sacrifice and now, unwittingly, serves Corypheus, because as one body falls, another appears to fill its place, with weapon drawn and expression fierce. The noise is deafening, reverberating off the walls in the narrow courtyard until all that can be heard is steel hitting steel and the pitiable cries of the dying.

Bron is surprised at how quickly the Inquisition troops clear the first courtyard. It leaves her uneasy, like there’s some sort of catch, some sort of trap they are yet to spring.

“The Inquisition is through, fall back!” she hears someone cry but she can’t tell where the shout is coming from or to where the Wardens are retreating.

Standing in the centre of the courtyard, breath heaving and mind reeling, Bron watches gormlessly as a continuous stream of Inquisition soldiers hurry through the broken door of the fortress and establish themselves at strategic positions next to the entrance. Now that the Inquisition has this first foothold within the fortress, there is no intention to lose it. 

She’s brought out of her stupor when she feels a gentle weight on her shoulder. When she turns she sees Alistair’s grime-covered face, a concerned frown pulling at his features. _Are you all right?_

She gives a weak smile and a shrug of her shoulders. _As good as can be expected._

Over Alistair’s shoulder, Bron can see Commander Cullen as he runs into the courtyard at the head of a unit of soldiers, heading straight to Eleri.

“All right, Inquisitor,” he says when he’s reached her side, “you have your way in. Best make use of it. My troops will keep the main host of demons occupied for as long as we can. ” 

“As long as we can?” Eleri queries with an arched brow, “that’s… comforting.”

“There’s too much resistance on the walls. Our men on the ladders can’t get a foothold,” he explains.

Hearing his words, Bron looks up at the high walls that line the courtyard. She can just make out figures among the sea of flailing, writhing limbs above. There are Inquisition troops, yes, their distinctive green distinguishing them from the Wardens’ blue – but there appears to be far more demons than humans on the walls, their mangled bodies and flaming limbs writhing and surging grotesquely. It’s a dispiriting sight.

“Hawke has gone to the battlements to assist but…” Cullen stops, looks thoughtfully across the assembled soldiers as if calculating their odds of survival. From the small shake of his head, Bron assumes his calculations have come up short. “If you can clear out the enemies on the battlements, we’ll be able to cover your advance.”

Eleri nods in understanding and then smiles, not sweetly or warmly, but with a kind of steely determination that is wholly at odds with Cullen’s far more somber expression. There is still fear in her eyes, and Bron does not fail to see the tiny tremble in her arms, but despite her terror, the Inquisitor is resolved to put on a strong front.

“To the walls,” Eleri calls to her companions, pushing as much authority as she possibly can into her normally soft voice, “we must support our comrades on the battlements.”

There’s a ripple of cheers before Eleri leads a unit of soldiers up a nearby flight of stairs toward the battlements. Cullen watches her go for a few lingering moments before leading his own units of soldiers forward to take the base of the fortress courtyard by courtyard. Bron feels sorry for him; it must be hard watching someone you love charge into battle, knowing that there’s nothing you can do to protect them.

At least Alistair is nearby, and Bron watches him from the corner of her eyes as she follows the Inquisition soldiers up toward the battlements. Alistair may be far more at ease on the battlefield than her but that does not mean that he will not need her.

Slowly, methodically, Eleri’s troops work their way into the Fortress, proceeding ever higher to the battlements. It doesn’t take long for them to find a natural rhythm – Cassandra, Alistair and Bron storming forward with the Inquisition’s soldiers while Eleri, Varric and Solas hang back to support. It’s an effective strategy and Bron is relieved that their losses so far are few.

That relief quickly vanishes when they reach the battlements.

Bodies pile the floor, the stones smeared with blood and viscera, while mage-fire and demons splinter the air. There’s a strange taste at the back of Bron’s throat, something sharp and stringent and wholly unnatural, and Bron’s limited experience with mages leaves her wondering whether magic is _supposed_ to taste like that.

Occasionally a ladder will appear, smacking against the outside of the fortress’s walls with a dull, metallic thunk, and Inquisition soldiers surge onto the battlements with a triumphant cry. Their triumph is quickly quashed as they’re met by an impenetrable barrier of Wardens and demons, their battle cries silenced by fire and ice.

The Inquisition needs to do something quick to reverse their fortunes.

“This is madness,” Bron hears over the monstrous cacophony of battle, “we will not be sacrificed to this.”

It is only then that she notices that not _all_ of the Wardens are attacking the Inquisition soldiers. Warden warriors stand among the melee, pleading with their mage comrades in a desperate attempt to stop the blood sacrifices and abandon the demons. The Warden mages don’t hear, already too succumbed to the Venatori’s influence.

“Quick!” shouts Eleri as she leads her soldiers toward the fighting, “we must protect the Warden warriors as well as our own!”

Eleri and Varric unleash a volley of arrows across the battlements, drawing attention away from the rebelling Wardens and toward the Inquisition reinforcements.

Before Bron can worry about the demons and the barrage of magic now heading her way, Eleri’s soldiers charge forward and Bron finds herself charging with them. The Warden warriors are helping – hacking and slashing at demon and mage alike – and while Bron appreciates their help, she’s irritated to find the battlefield even more bewildering that it was before. It’s hard trying to distinguish between the men in blue trying to kill her and the men in blue trying to help, particularly when her instincts are telling her to just stab whomever appears Warden-shaped.

When the first stretch of the battlements has been cleared of enemies, Eleri turns to the Warden warriors still standing, palms outreached to show that she means them no harm. “The Inquisition is here to stop Clarel,” she explains, “not to kill Wardens. If you fall back, you won’t be harmed.” 

“All right,” one of the warriors replies, Bron assumes someone of authority based on the extra ornamentation on his armour, “my men will stay back; we want no part of this.”

It’s a relief. Bron wasn’t particularly relishing the thought of having to kill more Wardens than absolutely necessary. And she knows it’ll be a relief for Alistair too – a Warden warrior himself – to save as many Wardens as possible.

She turns to face him, sees the pleased smile somehow cutting through the grime and the gore smeared across his face. “Well said,” he says, though he must know that Eleri won’t be able to hear him over the noise of nearby fighting, “I knew some of the Wardens would listen to reason.” She nods in response; he should know that someone agrees with him.

There’s little time for rest and Eleri pushes her soldiers to continue onward, cutting through demons and Warden mages as they move. The Inquisition’s troops show remarkable determination despite the demon horrors that face them at every turn, and Bron is impressed by their fighting skills. Commander Cullen has trained them well. 

Eleri and her companions also fight well together, like the complimentary gears in a well-oiled machine. Cassandra surges forward to face the enemy directly while Eleri and Varric fire projectiles methodically across the night sky. Solas chants low and steady, using magic to slow the Wardens’ approach and prevent them from overpowering the meager band of Inquisition soldiers. Alistair, tall and steady, stands his ground while bringing his long-sword down in straight, solid hits. Conversely, Bron never stands still, weaving through the wave of attackers, the narrow point of her rapier penetrating plate and chainmail alike. She strikes with precision, taking advantage of weak spots and constantly moving out of striking range to make up for her small stature.

They’re making excellent progress along the battlements when suddenly there’s a great conflagration of fire and Bron feels something drop in the pit of her stomach. Just ahead, Bron can see fireballs raining from the sky, pattering on the stone with sharp crashes of sound. Below, there are screams. Even at a distance, Bron can feel the oppressive heat of the flames wash over her skin, a singing sensation that makes her skin prickle.

It must be a Warden mage, more powerful than any other they have encountered. She grips her rapier tighter, uncertain what this thin lance of metal can do when faced with a person of such immeasurable power.

But then she sees – _Hawke_ – standing on the battlements amidst a great sea of bodies while flames lick and wave across her palms. She’s cleared the battlefield with one enormous burst of fire and death and Bron’s not sure whether she’s amazed or terrified. Either way, she’s immensely glad that Hawke is on the Inquisition’s side.

But Hawke has not killed all her opponents. One lone creature remains – a large, hefting demon which towers far, _far_ above her. Thick cords of muscle strain under a skin of grey scales and a horned head stares down at Hawke with almost pitying amusement.

_Pride Demon_ , Bron’s brain informs her, a powerful creature she’d learned about during Chantry study as a child. They are the most powerful of all demons, twisting the wisdom and faith of man and corrupting it into something ruinous. Bron wishes she hadn’t paid such close attention at school; she thinks in this situation that ignorance may be a blessing.

She squares her shoulders and shifts her weight to the pads of her feet, pivoting her sword in her hand to prepare for the imminent attack. To her side stands Alistair, still and sturdy, and she flashes him what she hopes is an encouraging smile. He frowns at her in return; she fears that her smile must look more manic than reassuring.

To her other side stands Cassandra and she throws her a smile as well; Cassandra only nods, although Bron finds Cassandra’s determined stoicism strangely fortifying. She knows that Eleri and Varric are behind her, weapons drawn and ready to provide suppressive fire, and she can still see the balls of fire roaring in Hawke’s hands.

She draws comfort and strength from the knowledge that her friends are close at hand.

The rumble comes quietly at first then crescendos into a mighty roar as the Pride Demon charges forward, crushing armour and bone beneath its clawed feet as it tramples across fallen bodies. Bron dodges to the side, ending in a clumsy roll that takes her out of the demon’s immediate range. She can see Alistair and Cassandra standing their ground, long-swords slashing at spined limbs and shields held aloft defensively.

It’s impressive, these two armoured figures standing sturdily against their far larger enemy but Bron knows that she cannot do likewise. She is no warrior, her leather armour offering only minimal protection, and she knows that the only way she can help is if she can dance behind the demon and find some sort of weak spot. Large, gnarled spikes extend from the demon’s elbows and Bron knows that she’ll have to time her movements properly if she doesn’t want to end up impaled while reeling to the demon’s back.

She’s waiting for the right moment to lunge when a sudden warning pierces the air and Bron finds herself lurching unexpectedly to the left as a clawed hand hits her soundly in the stomach.

Fuck – that hurts.

She hits the stone floor of the battlements with a heavy thud, curses herself for having not paid better attention. There’s a blossoming warmth at the back of her head and she’s sure that she must be bleeding. When she opens her eyes her vision is blurred, only indistinct shapes waver against a dark sky. She blinks until the world begins to come into focus and immediately regrets it; all around her lie scores of broken bodies, limbs akimbo, gazes unwavering and empty. It’s a macabre reminder of what will happen to her if she doesn’t get back on her feet and defend herself – _soon_.

She pushes her bruised body from the blood-slicked stones while her eyes desperately scan the battlefield to see whether her friends are still standing. Cassandra and Alistair are facing the Pride Demon head-on while Hawke rains fire from above, which means that Bron’s stomach is mercifully spared a second assault for now. Meanwhile Solas is holding back the arrival of lesser demons with wide sweeps of his staff and white arches of magic that make Bron’s teeth tingle whenever they make contact. At the rear of the group, Eleri and Varric are urgently firing arrow after arrow. Eleri’s rate of fire seems to be slowing and the trembling in her hands is beginning to affect her aim.

Bron gives her body another push; this _must_ end soon.

Marshaling as much strength as possible, Bron runs back into the fray, jumping to the side to avoid another powerful blow of the Pride Demon’s fist. As it swings its fist again, Alistair dives forward and jabs the monster in the armpit. The demon gives an anguished yell but appears unscathed as he swings again. Alistair is too slow, takes the fist squarely to his chest, and goes soaring through the air until he hits the crumbled remains of a wall and drops to the ground like a child’s ill-favoured toy.

A scream pierces the air and it takes Bron a few moments to realise that it’s hers. Alistair is slumped on the floor, limbs bent and face bloody, and Bron’s not sure whether it’s fear or sadness or panic that she feels at the sight of his prone form but all those emotions are brushed aside as they’re replaced with a surging, burning anger.

_Enough_ , she thinks, _this demon will fucking pay for what it has done to her Alistair_.

Bron runs, drops under the demon’s outstretched arm, then leaps at the demon from behind, burying her rapier between its shoulder blades and holding on desperately as the demon rears and bucks in an attempt to dislodge her. The demon’s thrashing causes Bron to fall but as she does, she drags her weapon down its skin, leaving a ragged gash all down its spine. The wound oozes, coating her hands and the front of her leathers in black blood, and permeating the air with a foul, stale stench.

She hits the ground with a jolt that steals the breath from her lungs. The pain is quickly forgotten though because on the other side of the battlefield Alistair is staggering to his feet and all Bron can feel is an overwhelming wave of relief. She needs to join him; they fight better when they’re side-by-side.

Pulling herself from the ground once more, Bron feels a distinctive twinge in her chest – ah, a few bruised ribs. Taking a step forward, she crumples to the ground with an embarrassingly shrill shout of pain. A twisted ankle too then. She shakes her head, as if she can shake away the pain, and rolls her shoulders. It’s less than ideal, her body bruised and strumming with pain, but then the Pride Demon is in a sorry state as well. They just need a few more good hits and the demon will fall. Then all they have to content with is the unending stampede of demons and deranged mages.

_Is that all?_

Bron feels the sudden peculiar compulsion to laugh but finds that she does not have the energy.

Alistair and Cassandra hack determinedly at the demon’s legs, strafing aside intermittently to avoid the crushing weight of its powerful fists, but their blows seem to simply bounce off the demon’s thick hide. Eleri and Varric’s arrows seem similarly affected, causing only minimal damage when they thump against the demon’s plated skin. If they are to end this, they need a new strategy.

Bron rushes forward, a newfound determination fuelling her steps even against the protests of her ankle. With a fierce roar, she climbs the demon’s massive frame until they are face-to-face, then pushes her rapier down into the softer skin at the junction between neck and shoulder. The demon’s mouth opens in a scream but no noise comes out. Instead blood, black like pitch, erupts upwards like a fountain and the mighty creature staggers precariously. Bron jumps off the demon’s lumbering form, leaving her rapier sticking jauntily out of black-stained flesh.

Her legs crumple beneath her as she lands clumsily on the filthy flagstones but Bron manages to pull enough air into her lungs to shout, “Hawke! Use lightening! Aim for the neck!”

Hawke looks confused for a moment then sees the rapier still embedded in the demon’s skin and nods in understanding. Raising her staff, she unleashes a piercing lance of electricity which barrels straight for Bron’s rapier like a lightening rod. The metal blade sparks with power as the electricity surges down the rapier and into the demon’s body.

There’s a loud crackling sound as Hawke’s lightening scorches the Pride Demon from within. The smell is foul, the choking aroma of burning sinew and skin. The demon’s body jerks and spasms like a grotesque marionette until, finally, it stops and falls pendulously to the floor.

No one cheers when the demon falls still; there’s no time – no time to rest, no time to breath. The Pride Demon may be defeated but the mages and their demons still remain, crowding the battlements, jockeying to attack.

Bron is tired. Bron is so fucking tired. And she just – she can’t, _she can’t_. Sprawled on her back atop the filthy stone, Bron commands her body to move but finds it unwilling. She can see the beady eyes of the approaching demons, hear the crackling magic of the Warden mages, but there’s nothing she can do – no last reserve of strength she can draw on to carry on the fight. Bron is completely spent.

_Oh Maker_.

Suddenly a volley of arrows flies through the air and a throng of demons immediately hit the ground. From her position splayed on the floor, Bron can’t really see what’s happening but the first volley is followed by another and then another, until the air hums with continuous arrow fire. The demon hordes finally stop advancing, their numbers diminishing under the relentless assault while their mage support turns to retreat.

When she is finally able to twist her body and sit up, Bron is faced with a unit of Inquisition archers, longbows in hand. They must have made it up the ladders, or maybe they were sent by Cullen from the courtyards below. It doesn’t really matter – all that matters is that they’re here, the Wardens are routed, and she still lives.

Alistair stumbles to her side with hurried, graceless feet and falls heavily to his knees beside her.

“You all right?” he asks as he takes her hands in his. His armoured gauntlets pinch at her skin even through her leather gloves.

“Yes,” she lies, “I am unharmed.” Alistair doesn’t need to know about the throbbing pain in her ribs, or the sharp stab in her ankle, and she hopes that her black hair is hiding the blood she can feel trickling from the wound at the back of her skull. Alistair has enough concerns on his mind right now; he doesn’t need to waste time worrying about her wellbeing as well.

They are both unsteady as they pull each other to their feet, and though Bron’s head is reeling when she’s finally upright, she tries her best to hide it from Alistair. She smiles at him with forced ease and relishes in the small smile he gives her in return. It’s only a tentative whisper of a smile – nothing like his usual, toothy grins – but it’s there, and he’s alive, and that’s all Bron really needs right now.

He gives her elbow a friendly squeeze before turning to help the others, hurrying with extended arms to assist a prone Cassandra. Bron supposes she should be helpful too, maybe assist Eleri in retrieving arrows from the battlefield or help Hawke search the bodies littering the floor for Inquisition survivors. But she fears that if she attempts even one step she’ll end up falling to the ground again and she needs just… just _one moment_ to herself.

An Inquisition soldier hands her a vial of something and she’s not sure what it is but it slides down her throat with a pleasant, soothing warmth. The sharp pain in her head remains but the ache in her ankle feels lessened. It’s not a perfect fix but it’ll do.

“So many have succumbed to Corypheus,” Hawke says as she bends to check the pulse of a fallen Inquisition soldier. She frowns then straightens. “This is going to be… _bloody_.”

“You did good, Hawke,” Eleri says as she walks over to Hawke and places a companionable hand on her shoulder, “many more would have died were you not here fighting alongside us.”

Hawke nods although she doesn’t seem particularly soothed by Eleri’s words of thanks.

From a short distance away, Bron can hear shouting, the distinct snapping of magic and the howling of inhuman voices. It’s an unwelcome reminder that the battle is still not won.

“Hawke is right,” Eleri says, now pitching her voice loud enough to carry over the battlements. She looks distinctly uncomfortable, her expression pinched and tense as all faces turn to look at her. “This battle is bloody. And it will get bloodier before the night is done. But if… _when_ we win – when we’ve freed the Wardens from Corypheus – then we’ll know that the blood of our comrades was not spilt in vain. I know you’re tired. I know you hurt. But victory _is_ within our grasp. It is time… it is time to _end this_.”

A small cheer ripples through the assembled crowd. It’s not much, most people too tired to show any genuine enthusiasm, but the fear seems lessened somehow. Instead of dread and horror, there’s determination behind people’s eyes, a new confidence in people’s steps.

Eleri’s speech is not the most inspiring rallying cry Bron has ever heard, and it’s clear from Eleri’s stiffness that she is not comfortable making these kinds of grand public addresses, but her words seem to have worked as intended and Bron is reminded once again of just why this woman was chosen to be Inquisitor.

“You’ll need this,” Alistair says from over her shoulder and when Bron turns she sees her rapier in his outstretched hand and an amused smile on his face. She’s mocked him before for having lost his blade on the battlefield; he’s probably enjoying this little role reversal. She takes the rapier from him eagerly, noting how the weapon gleams unexpectedly. He’s wiped the blade clean, although some blood and gore still hangs persistently to the crevices of the hilt, and she feels an odd patter of affection at this little act of kindness. She twists her wrists, swinging with an exaggerated flourish. It’s strangely comforting, the sturdy weight of her rapier back in her hand. 

_Eleri’s right_ , she thinks, _it is time to end this_.

* * *

 

Alistair is tired. There’s a gash on his temple where a demon got too close. His knee hurts from when he lunged away from a Warden attack and landed awkwardly. And his back – _Maker, his back_ – is throbbing sharply from when the Pride Demon sent him flying through the air and crashing into a wall. It was a rookie mistake, getting too close to the demon’s claws, and he doesn’t have time for those now.

He clumsily prods at the wound on his head while trying to surreptitiously observe Bron. She seems to be in better shape than him, looks relatively unscathed. But then her fighting style is to strike and then quickly retreat, wheeling to unprotected backs and skirting around attacks. It’s a less direct method of attack than his, it takes her longer to down a well-armoured enemy, but it keeps her safe. 

Bron raises her head sharply when he hisses in pain, narrows her eyes at him in silent reprimand. _Stop poking_.

He raises his palms to her in what he hopes is a placating gesture, then opens his mouth to apologise when Solas interrupts.

“We must hurry,” says Solas, “our troops cannot resist the demons for long.”

It’s an obvious statement and Alistair wants to say something snarky in return. But he’s proud of himself when he manages to hold his tongue; snark won’t make the next fight any easier (although it might make him feel better).

Eleri and her troops had stopped for only a brief moment, only long enough to pick the ground for arrows and swig back restoring potions, but Solas’s words remind everyone of the urgency of their mission. Eleri gathers her troops around her, waits only long enough to check that everyone is ready, before leading them further along the battlements. There’s no time to rest, not now, not while the Fortress still teams with a seemingly endless army of demons.

The Inquisition makes its way toward a building that looks like some sort of central Keep, its tall, straight walls jutting forebodingly into the darkened sky. Their progress is slow, only advancing along the battlements through relentless battle. Alistair may have been tired before but now he is exhausted. 

Just before they reach the Keep, they encounter a group of Inquisition soldiers.

“How many demons are there?” Eleri asks as her head scans the area, nodding at the small assemblage of soldiers.

“Fewer thanks to you,” he replies, “and Hawke – she saved a lot of lives on the battlements. Not all the Wardens have stood against us; several have come to our aid. Maker willing, we may be able to reason with Clarel.”

She pulls a face, nose wrinkled and lips curled, at the soldier’s invocation of the Maker. “Yes, _Maker willing_ ,” she replies, quickly muttering the words like they taste foul on her tongue. And despite his strict Chantry upbringing, Alistair thinks he might agree with her irritation – if the Maker really does exist, he has clearly forsaken this place.

When they walk through a gateway into the central Keep of the fortress, they’re met with a large, square courtyard filled with Wardens, though none seem to notice their arrival. A woman he assumes to be Clarel stands on a raised platform at the edge of the yard, arms outstretched to the assembled crowd.

“Wardens, we are betrayed by the very world we have sworn to protect,” Clarel calls, her thick Orlesian accent giving her words a pleasantly lilting sound that seems totally out of odds with the battlefield.

A man hurries out of the shadows and grabs Clarel by the shoulders. Alistair immediately recognises him as the man from the ritual tower, _Erimond_. Clarel and Erimond bicker amongst themselves for a time, and although Alistair can’t hear what they’re saying, he can tell from their fervent gesticulating that it is not a harmonious conversation. It gives him some hope; if there is discord between them, perhaps it’ll be easy to break Clarel away from the Venatori’s thrall and bloodshed can be avoided.

Pushing aside Erimond, Clarel reaches out toward an elderly Warden who has stepped forward with a ceremonious bow. Alistair can’t hear them but he knows what’s coming next; he remembers vividly the horrifying sacrifices he witnessed at the ritual tower. Alistair and his Inquisition allies hurry forward – perhaps this time they will arrive in time to stop this madness. 

Clarel pulls out a small dagger and slides it across the elderly Warden’s throat. He falls to the ground in a shower of blood that spills and pools out of his body as if it is a living creature with a mind of its own. 

Alistair knows that they are too late.

Suddenly Erimond cries out in distress and it’s clear from his frantic pointing and waving that he’s spotted the Inquisition’s approach. “Stop them!” he screeches, “we must complete the ritual!”

“Clarel!” Eleri shouts, and Alistair is amazed that so much sound can come from such a tiny woman, “if you complete that ritual, you’re doing exactly what Erimond wants, you’re playing straight into the hands of the Venatori.”

“I’m helping the Wardens fight the Blight!” barks Erimond with a sneering expression. Alistair really wants to punch him. “I’m keeping the world safe from darkspawn! Who wouldn’t want that?! The ritual may require blood sacrifice – hate me for that if you must – but do not hate the Wardens for doing their duty.”

“We make the sacrifices no one else will. Our warriors die proudly for a world that will never thank them,” Clarel adds for emphasis.

“And then your Tevinter ally binds the mages to Corypheus!” Alistair shouts.

“Corypheus?” Clarel asks uncertainly, clearly rattled by Alistair’s words, “but he’s dead.”

Erimond mutters something in Clarel’s ear, clearly trying to dissuade her from listening to anything other than Venatori lies. Clarel’s face is its own battlefield, her confusion warring with her sense of duty. She rubs a gloved hand across her forehead, smearing grit and dirt across her skin.

Finally she nods, her narrowed eyes burning with a newfound determination. “Bring it through!” she calls, her decision made. 

Alistair doesn’t know what she means but he knows it’s not good.

The Warden mages lift their arms and the courtyard is bathed in green. Red whorls of blood start rising from the scattered corpses of sacrificed Wardens, convalescing into a central orb which crackles and pops as it’s energised by the mages’ magic. There’s a burst of light and the orb is replaced by a tear in the sky, a scar that cuts through Alistair’s field of vision. There’s something beyond the tear, something shifting, seething. Alistair has no idea what it is but he really, really doesn’t want to find out.

“What is that?” he hears someone mutter from over his shoulder. He turns to see Hawke’s stricken face, blood smeared across the bridge of her nose. He hadn’t realised she’d followed them to the Keep.

“I have seen more than my share of Blood Magic!” Hawke calls out to the Wardens that are now facing the Inquisitor and her companions in a less than friendly manner, “It is _never_ worth the cost,” she spits.

Clarel seems unfazed, talking with Erimond as she prepares to complete the ritual.

The Wardens continue stalking toward the Inquisitor and her companions, raising their assorted weaponry as they prepare to attack, and Alistair feels a surging swell of panic. He really wants this to stop, really doesn’t want to strike down any more of his Warden brothers. If only there was something he could do to bring an end to all of this death. 

“Wait!” Alistair calls, then abruptly stops when he realises he doesn’t actually know what else to say. He’s never been the most eloquent public speaker, nor the most rousing, but he’s desperate, and he’s tired, and this is the last tactic he can think of. “You don’t know me – but I’m one of you. I am a Warden. I devoted my life to sacrifice and duty. I fought against the darkspawn to protect Ferelden from the Blight. Like you, I’ve given my life to the Grey Wardens. The first time I put on the armour, I felt like I belonged, like I was part of something honorable, something with a purpose. I know how good that feels. How safe. But fighting and dying here today won’t stop the Blights. If you want to stop the Blights, kill that bastard up there! His master is the living embodiment of its corruption!” 

The Wardens pause, uncertain, and turn to face Clarel. 

Erimond and Clarel are bickering once more on the platform. Alistair wishes he could hear them, wishes he could tell whether his words had got through to her. 

Then Erimond steps forward and shouts, “my Master thought you might come here, Inquisitor! He sent me this to welcome you.” He clacks his staff on the wooden floor of the platform. The noise seems to echo unnaturally, piercing the air.

Suddenly there’s an unholy shriek, a harrowing scream that makes Alistair’s skin crawl. He looks up to the clouded skies and sees a dark form shifting, diving and darting against the blackness. Two dark wings stretch overhead and a long, curved tail snaps against the sky.

_Archdemon_.

Alistair may never have seen one in person but he recognises it from his dreams. When he’d travelled Ferelden during the Blight, the image of the Archdemon had been his almost constant companion.

The Archdemon swoops low over the courtyard and Wardens and Inquisition soldiers alike are forced to scatter. Alistair grabs Bron and throws her to the ground, stumbling to his knees behind her to shield her body with his own. The beast’s long talons scrape across the stone floor, sending up sparks amidst a terrible screeching sound.

When he looks up, he sees Clarel backing away from Erimond on the platform. Whatever camaraderie she felt for the man has clearly been lost – undoubtedly the moment he pulled forth an Archdemon. Clarel may not understand the depths of Erimond’s evil, or the true intent of his plan – but she must realise now that any man who can summon an Archdemon is no friend of the Wardens.

Suddenly Clarel raises her staff and a swirling pulse of purple is sent hurtling into Erimond’s back. He smacks to the ground, his staff skipping out of his grasp, and Alistair feels a tiny leap of satisfaction.

Erimond is on his back, Clarel looming over him with power dancing down her staff and across her hands. Erimond lifts one hand in pleading, perhaps attempting one final appeal to his former ally. From atop a nearby tower, the Archdemon watches with interest, body coiled with tension and ready to strike when necessary.

Whether it’s Erimond’s desperate pleas or the Archdemon’s looming presence that persuades her, Clarel turns her magic away from the quivering Venatori and instead fires at the Archdemon. 

The creature rears in distress before spitting a ball of red magic. Clarel leaps to the side, narrowly avoiding the flaming orb. The creature takes another deep breath before spitting red balls of magic all over the courtyard. They smash as they hit the stone floor, crackling like shards of glass, and unleashing waves of magic that skitter across the ground in webs of fire and lightening. The crowded courtyard is busy with panic as people dive and leap away from the devastating magic.

“Help the Inquisitor!” orders Clarel, and while it’s a welcome command, Alistair wishes it hadn’t come too late.

Erimond has staggered to his feet and scurries up a staircase that leads from the raised platform and deeper into the Keep. Clarel follows with her staff held in a white-knuckled grip and while Alistair would be happy to let her eviscerate him, Erimond may be the only person who can call off the Archdemon.

“We need to follow Clarel,” Alistair calls and Eleri nods in response before gathering her companions around her and charging after Erimond and Clarel.

Behind them, demons are now surging through the gateway, tumbling from the battlements into the Keep’s central courtyard. Alistair knows they can’t protect their rear from the demons while staving off the Archdemon _and_ stopping Erimond’s escape, and is therefore relieved when the Wardens surge passed the Inquisition’s people to confront the demons.

Good – the Wardens’ last minute change of heart may yet save them.

Alistair follows Eleri as she runs up the staircase at the far end of the courtyard up to the raised platform where Clarel and Erimond had been attempting their ritual. At the back of the platform is another staircase and they continue running up to the parapets that top the Keep.

Alistair can hear the Archdemon as much as he can see it. There’s a snap and a hiss at every beat of its enormous wings, a rumbling boom each time the creature growls. When the creature swoops down, Alistair ducks, angered at how ineffectual he feels with only a long-sword in hand. Eleri, Varric and Solas use whatever ranged attacks they can to beat the creature back but Alistair knows that they will not be enough.

Only a Warden can defeat an Archdemon.

His legs are burning by the time they reach the top of the Keep. When the Inquisition has found Clarel, she’s in battle with Erimond.

Erimond is cowering with outspread arms as he staggers back while Clarel marches forward determinedly with her staff raised.

“You!” she screams, shaking with rage, “You’ve destroyed the Grey Wardens!”

He balls his fist and sends a shuddering orb of magic toward her. Without his staff there’s little power to the attack and Clarel bats it away like it’s nothing before sending her own surging pulse forward. It knocks him off his feet and he hits the floor with a sharp yell.

“You did that to yourself, you stupid bitch,” Erimond retorts with a cackle, and Alistair can’t believe he has the temerity to laugh. “All I did was dangle a little power before your eyes. And you couldn’t _wait_ to get your hands bloody.”

She screams, unleashing another crack of energy that sends Erimond sliding across the stone floor of the parapet. When his body comes to a juddering halt, he curls up on himself, cradling his injured body and groaning in pain.

“You could have served a new god,” Erimond moans, and Alistair is only just close enough to hear it. He keeps on running, even against the protest of his calves.

“I will never serve the Blight,” Clarel retorts, raising her staff for one final attack.

Before she can release her finishing blow, there’s a snap and a crunch and Clarel disappears from sight as the Archdemon’s jaw consumes her. Blood spurts between jagged teeth, dangling limbs flailing spasmodically, and Eleri and her companions come to a sudden halt.

The Archdemon circles above the Keep, shaking Clarel back and forth in his enormous jaw before finally spitting her to the stone floor below. Alistair is amazed to see her body still moving, writhing in pain.

Eleri immediately starts to move forward, her instincts as a healer overpowering her self-preservation instincts. Alistair follows, his own instinct to protect this important figure overpowering the impulse to run from the Archdemon. But Eleri stops still in her tracks when the Archdemon lands on the parapet just behind Clarel’s prone form, seemingly staring her down.

“In war, victory…” he thinks he can hear Clarel chanting.

The Archdemon steps forward, stalking toward Eleri, and though she starts to hurriedly backtrack, Alistair fears (knows) that she won’t be able to get out of reach of the Archdemon’s snapping teeth in time. The Archdemon is looming above her, so close, _too close_ , and there’s nothing he, or any of Eleri’s companions, can do to pull her out.

When the Archdemon steps over Clarel’s prone form there’s suddenly a final burst of magical power, a ripping, sparkling of purple that consumes the Archdemon and the walls of the Keep. There’s a mighty roar as Clarel’s magic scorches over the Achdemon’s scales and a loud crack as the stone floor starts to crumble below the beast’s enormous feet.

The ancient Keep shakes, the floor of the parapet rolling like a wave, and Alistair, and everyone else, is thrown off their feet. Whether it’s Clarel’s magic or the trembling walls, the Archdemon is sent reeling from its feet and tumbling down the side of the Keep with a sharp, almost pitiable, wail.

Alistair supposes that he should applaud, cheer at the sight of the Archdemon falling from the Keep, but he can feel the parapet collapsing beneath him, the walls of the Keep giving way, and there’s no time for cheering as he scrambles desperately to his feet. Eleri appears beside him, tugging him up with her tiny frame in a vain attempt to help him.

When he’s finally clambered to his feet, he runs. He can see Eleri and her companions running alongside him, can feel the stone falling beneath his feet. It’s an odd sensation, pushing down on the ground but feeling nothing pushing back.

Then suddenly there’s no stone beneath him, no purchase when he runs. Instead he’s falling, he’s falling and the walls are crumbling around him, and the mighty stones of the Keep are plunging passed him. He can see Eleri at the corner of his eyes, and her companions a little further ahead. He twists and thrashes until he can see Bron. She’s flailing as she drops, as if hoping to catch something that will stop her fall, but she must know that there’s nothing that can save her now because her face is blank with wearied resignation. He stretches out his hand to reach for her, though he knows she’s far too far away.

He wishes he could touch her one last time. Wishes he could say goodbye, say he loves her, say _anything_ at all. 

Hawke had warned him that something like this might happen. She’d warned him that the battle could go badly, warned him that he would regret not telling Bron how he felt when he’d had the chance. She’d said that he would face death with regret if he’d left the words unsaid. And while Hawke is probably right – there’s luckily too little time for regret.

He’s falling too fast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	14. Coming and Going

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition finds itself in the Fade - things get weird and then get stabby. And then the Inquisitor has a very, very difficult decision to make...

The ground is in the wrong place. Or rather, maybe the ground is in the right place, and Alistair is not. Except the ground is to the side and not below and he would have assumed that the ground is therefore not the ground but in fact a wall, except Eleri is standing on the ground and it looks like he is not.

Alistair is confused.

“Where are we?” he asks, and the question seems laughably inadequate given the circumstances.

“We… were falling,” comes Hawke’s voice from beside him, except she’s not really beside him because she’s upside down. She’s both standing beside him and standing upside down at the same time and Alistair’s brain knows that that’s not possible but his eyes are seeing it nonetheless. 

And there’s something a little… _off_ about Hawke as well. She looks around her with a perplexed furrow to her brows but her face holds none of the sheer panic that Eleri’s does. Alistair can’t help but wonder what monstrosities Hawke has seen for her reaction to be so understated; he probably doesn’t want to know. 

“Did we… land?” asks Eleri, and she sounds so hopeful that Alistair doesn’t want to judge her too harshly for having asked such an obviously foolish question. Because _of course_ they haven’t just landed – the sky is a swirling vortex of colour and mist, there are hulking mountains of rock littering the horizon, and Hawke – _Hawke is upside down_. Wherever they are, they are no longer in the Keep.

“No, this is the Fade,” says Solas, and there’s something about Solas’s voice that puts Alistair on edge, and not just because what he’s saying is utterly terrifying but because he seems almost… pleased?

We’re in the Fade – we’re in the _fucking_ Fade?

It’s not possible, _not possible_. Not since the Magisters turned the Golden City to Black – not since then has a human being stepped bodily into the Fade.

“The Inquisitor opened a Rift. We came through… and survived,” Solas explains and there’s an odd evenness to his tone, as if he were simply describing the weather or explaining the rules of Wicked Grace. Alistair’s teeth crawl. “I never thought I would ever find myself here physically. Look! The Black City – almost close enough to touch.” His tone has shifted, each word now laced with growing excitement – and Solas joins Erimond on the list of people that Alistair would like to punch.

“This is – I don’t… incredible? Terrifying?” Eleri says, head snapping from side to side as she drinks in this new, bewildering environment.

“What spirit commands this place?” Solas asks, and he’s presumably talking to himself now since it’s obvious that none in their group could possibly know the answer to such a question, “I have never seen anywhere like it.”

“I don’t understand,” snaps Hawke, and Alistair can tell that his old friend is finding Solas’s exuberant tone just as irritating as he does, “I’ve been to the Fade before. It didn’t look like _this_.”

“Perhaps it’s because we’re here physically,” Bron suggests, “we’re not just dreaming.” Bron turns to face Eleri, face thoughtful and full of curiosity (if she is afraid, she is hiding it well) “You said that you walked out of the Fade at Haven, Eleri, was it like this?”

Eleri looks discomfited by the question, suddenly dipping her eyes and working at the ground with the toe of her boots.

“I… I don’t know,” she admits with an awkward shrug, “I still can’t remember what happened the last time I did this.”

The group falls silent. Lost in their own worlds of thought, they each take a moment to search their surroundings and try (in vain) to come to terms with their current predicament.

 _The Fade_ – to be _physically_ in the Fade.

“Well… whatever happened at Haven, we can’t assume we’re safe now,” says Hawke, rolling her shoulders in a gesture that Alistair immediately recognises. It’s her ‘ _time to get shit done’_ gesture – the one that tells him she is through with merely standing around and looking lost; she’s going to try and fix things. “There was a demon on the other side of the Rift that Erimond was using. And there could be others.” 

He can see the others nodding in agreement, checking to see that their weapons are in hand, their armour in place. Whatever internal worries are plaguing people’s minds, it’s clear from everyone’s increasingly determined expressions that it’s time to push them aside in favour of doing something - _anything_. 

“In our world, the demons came through the Rift in the main hall of the Keep. Can we escape the same way?” Alistair asks, and he’d intended it as a question for himself more than an actual suggestion. He’s surprised when Eleri nods at him.

“Well… there’s one way to find out,” Eleri replies, pacing passed him and looking out across the horizon. “There!” she cries, pointing to a scar in the sky that _could_ resemble the one they saw in the Keep’s hall, “that’s the Rift – let’s go.”

It’s not much to go on – certainly not enough to quiet the roiling panic in his mind. But it’s _something_. It’s a destination, it’s a goal. And surely it’s better, he reasons, to walk toward a goal, however tenuous, than stand around, wondering why the ground isn’t where he wants it to be and trying not to cry.

Bron walks closer to Alistair, and he’s not sure how she got to be so lucky but she appears to be standing on the actual ground rather than his sharply angled rock face. She holds out a hand to him and he takes it gladly. He jumps at the same time as she tugs and there’s a strange moment of weightlessness before he lands unsteadily on the ground. It’s nice to be back the right way up again. 

He’s surprised when she steps in close to him, even more surprised when she raises both hands and places them on his gore-covered chestplate. He expects her to say something but she doesn’t. Instead she just stands there silently, head slightly bowed and eyes glassed over in deep thought.

His immediate instinct is to hug her, to pull her flush against his chest and hold on tight until he’s sure that she’s real and alive and unhurt. When they’d fallen from the Keep, he’d been so certain that that would be their demise. They would hit the ground, bones would shatter, their lives would come to an abrupt end and that would be it. So to see her standing before him, breathing, moving, _living_ – it’s more than he’d hoped for.

Perhaps he should make some sort of grand declaration. After all, he’d thought them both on the brink of death mere moments before. Perhaps he should admit his feelings for her _now_ before death catches up with them again. But then this doesn’t really seem like the time or place for grand romantic declarations so instead he settles for a simple, “thanks,” then adds, “you all right?”

It’s hardly the most heart-wrenching declaration of sentiment.

“I’m not hurt,” she says, “but I’m not sure any of us are ‘all right’. Not as long as we stay here.”

He nods in agreement then reaches out to give her shoulder a squeeze, trying to satisfy himself with this fleeting moment of physical contact. It’s not a hug, but it’ll do for now.

Over Bron’s shoulder, Alistair watches as Hawke jumps from her upside-down position on a floating rock and lands on the ground with a thump and a string of colourful expletives. Varric lets out a snort of laughter before helping her to her feet.

“Very smooth,” Varric drawls.

“Shut up, dwarf,” she replies, though mainly affectionately.

They all gather around Eleri before, without a word, she starts leading them through the arches and spears of rock toward the jagged hole in the sky. Eleri walks at the front of their little pack, Solas right beside her, followed by Cassandra, then Hawke and Varric, and finally Alistair and Bron at the rear. Even from the back of their odd little team, Alistair can hear Solas talking excitedly about the Fade, and how it’s jut so _thrilling_ to be trapped here.

“Concentrate on the task at hand,” he hears Cassandra reprimand, “there is nothing more dangerous than this place.”

Alistair is grateful for her words; Solas may be enjoying himself but this is no happy jaunt through dreamworld – this is the Fade. It is a forbidden place, weird and twisted. Stone juts out of the ground in unnatural shapes. Rocks hang from the sky as if carved out of thin air. A mist pervades everything, but it is somehow a living and breathing entity; it reacts to their presence, leaving a path for them as they walk. There are clusters of candles resting on the rock formations, as if some thoughtful soul has tried to spruce up the place for visitors. Occasionally they come across a number of chairs arranged in a semi-circle, or a cup and saucer carefully positioned on a table, like a tableau from a play eerily devoid of actors.

Alistair doesn’t think anything could possibly make the Fade any weirder.

And then they meet the Divine.

Or at least she _looks_ like the Divine, although Alistair knows it can’t possibly _be_ her.

“By the Maker,” he breathes in disbelief, “could that be…?”

“I greet you, Warden,” she replies, her voice calm and measured. It is not a familiar sound, after all Alistair never met the Divine when she was alive, but it is strangely comforting.

“Divine Justinia? Most Holy?” says Cassandra, and there’s such hopefulness in her eyes that it’s almost painful for Alistair to look.

“Cassandra,” the Divine says warmly, stepping forward as if to greet her but then stopping when Cassandra recoils slightly.

“Cassandra – you knew the Divine – is this really her?” asks Eleri.

“I… I don’t know,” replies Cassandra, sounding uncharacteristically small. “It is said the souls of the dead pass through the Fade and sometimes linger, but… we know that spirits lie.” She quickly marshals her face, any trace of hopeful yearning immediately banished, “be wary, Inquisitor.”

“You think my survival impossible,” the Divine continues, “yet here you stand alive in the Fade yourselves. In truth, proving my existence either way would require time we do not have.” 

“Then simply tell us what you are,” snaps Hawke impatiently.

“You do not remember what happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, Inquisitor,” the Divine says to Eleri, ignoring Hawke’s terse interruption.

“How do you know I was made Inquisitor?” Eleri asks with a suspicious lift to her brows, “you died long before we found Skyhold.”

“I know because I have examined memories like yours, stolen by the demon that serves Corypheus. It is the Nightmare you forget upon waking. It feeds off memories of fear and darkness, growing fat upon the terror. The false Calling that terrified the Wardens into making such grave mistakes? That is the Nightmare’s work.”

Now _that_ peaks Alistair’s interest. He’d assumed that Corypheus himself was behind the Calling, some peculiar blood magic perhaps, or something darker that only the Magisters of old could know. But if the Divine is right, that means that they _finally_ know how to bring an end to the false Calling, how to free the Wardens from the madness that has consumed them. This demon, this _Nightmare_ – it is the key to everything.

“I would gladly avenge the insult this Nightmare has dealt upon the Wardens,” says Alistair darkly, “we must destroy this demon.”

“You will have your chance, brave Warden,” assures the Divine, “this place of darkness is its lair.”

“How does Corypheus command such a demon?” asks Eleri, and Alistair can’t help but think that that’s the wrong question. Who cares _why_ the Nightmare serves Corypheus? Alistair only wants to know how to defeat it.

“The Nightmare serves willingly,” the Divine answers, “for Corypheus has brought much terror to this world. He was one of the Magisters that unleashed the first Blight upon the world. Every child’s cry as the Archdemon circles, every dwarf’s whimper in the Deep Roads – yes, the Nightmare has fed well.”

“Great….” Hawke drawls with growing impatience, “but how do we kill it?”

“You hurt it by escaping the Fade and leading your people against Corypheus,” replies the Divine, though she never takes her eyes from Eleri.

“Well that’s grand and all but – _right now_ – how do we kill it?” Hawke asks again, this time over-enunciating the question as if talking to a petulant child.

“That is the best answer I can give you,” the Divine retorts with a smile.

Alistair wants to scoff at that – _that’s_ her best answer? It’s hardly an answer at all. And that’s what they _desperately_ need right now – answers. How to escape the Fade. How to defeat the demon. If the Divine does not have those answers, then Alistair is not sure what hope they have of succeeding.

But while the Divine does not know how to defeat the Nightmare, she _does_ know how to restore Eleri’s memories from Haven. And Eleri seems much more at ease once her memories have been returned (or at least as at ease as one can be when lost in the Fade). Eleri has always made it clear that she does not believe that she’d been saved by Andraste, or that the mark on her hand was a gift from the Maker. Indeed, Alistair had noticed the way she flinches every time someone calls her the Herald of Andraste. Now that she knows the mark on her hand is from Corypheus and not Andraste, she seems quietly pleased – like her convictions have finally been proven right.

“Corypheus intended to rip open the Veil, use the Anchor to enter the Fade, and throw open the doors of the Black City. Not for the old gods – but for himself,” the Divine explains once Eleri has her memories back. “When you disrupted his plan, the orb bestowed the Anchor on you instead.” 

Eleri nods in understanding.

“You have reclaimed that which you had lost,” the Divine adds, “but now the Nightmare knows that you are here. You must make haste. I will prepare the way ahead.” 

And then the Divine is gone. There’s no flash, no spark, just one moment she is there and the next she is not. Alistair finds it unsettling.

“Was that really the most Holy?” Cassandra asks, and it’s clear from her tone that she desperately wishes it to be so.

“Well… we have survived in the Fade physically. Perhaps she did as well,” reasons Solas, “or perhaps if it is a Spirit who identifies so strongly with Justinia that it believes it _is_ her, how can we say that it is not?”

Alistair knows bullshit when he hears it. Solas is merely indulging in speculation – and speculation cannot help them now. He doesn’t know why the mage is causing him such irritation. Perhaps the Fade has an aggravating effect on the mind. Or perhaps Solas really is that irritating. Either way, Alistair wishes Solas would just own up to his ignorance and keep his mouth shut.

“Whoever she is, she seemed to want to help us,” Alistair says, and he’s pleased to see most people nodding. Despite their reservations, everyone seems buoyed by the prospect that at least _something_ in the Fade is on their side.

The Divine had indicated to a path before she’d vanished, a twisting path seemingly carved into the misshapen landscape of jagged rocks. Without any other apparent alternatives, they decide to follow it. 

They walk for… well, Alistair’s not sure for how long. It could be hours; it could be a matter of minutes. Nothing is certain when the Fade seems to be always shifting. The Fade almost seems alive, its landscapes twisting and changing with every passing moment. For a time Alistair thinks that they’re going uphill but when he turns to look behind him, the path appears to be curving upward. It’s disorientating, a little nauseating even, that there appears to be no sense of direction in the Fade. The view from the top of a staircase is the same as the view from the bottom. No matter how many times they turn left, the path never seems to cross over itself.

Occasionally they are attacked by wraiths, wailing, glowing spirits with outstretched arms that paw and scratch at the air. They’re quickly dispatched, proving only another nuisance to add to the growing list of things that make the Fade so eminently uncomfortable.

“I expected worse,” comments Hawke as they deal with another handful of wraiths.

“These are just minor servants of the Nightmare,” responds Solas smoothly.

“Pity… and here I thought the Fade was going to be a piece of cake,” snarks Hawke in return.

Hawke is quickly proven wrong.

“Well well well… what do we have here?” comes a voice, both soft and booming at the same time. It’s not clear where the voice is coming from; it seems to reverberate through the air but also murmur at the back of Alistair’s skull, like a secret whispered just for him. It’s deep and warm, almost comforting in a way, but it makes Alistair’s spine shiver and his hairs prickle. “Some silly little girl comes to steal the fear that I so kindly lifted from her shoulders. You should have thanked me and left your fear where it lay, forgotten. You think that pain will make you stronger? What fool filled your mind with such drivel? The only one who grows stronger from your fears – _is me_.”

Eleri mutters something in elvish and while Alistair cannot parse the exact meaning, he can tell from her tone that it is not complimentary. He shares her feelings.

“Oh great – a disembodied voice,” drawls Varric, “because this place isn’t freaky enough already.”

“Is this the Nightmare’s welcome?” asks Bron, looking at Solas expectantly.

“He feeds on our fears, remember. Through our fear, he is made stronger. It is in his best interest to… unsettle us,” Solas explains.

Eleri huffs at that. “I am many things but I am not… unsettled,” she snaps, “I am tired, I am sore, I am hungry. If he is trying to scare me then he has made a grave error – I’m not afraid; I’m _pissed off_.”

Eleri’s irate outburst stuns everyone into silence. She’s normally so collected, so patient, so unrelentingly chirpy – Alistair is surprised to learn that she has a temper too. It’s a welcome revelation though. Alistair’s glad that she’s angry; he’s angry too.

With a stormy expression, Eleri marches forward with renewed determination and everyone falls in line behind her. They continue along the path, fighting wraiths and minor demons as they go, and it’s not long until they fall into the same practiced strategy that served them so well at Adamant. Cassandra, Bron and Alistair charge forward while Eleri, Solas and Varric keep their distance, striking at their enemies from afar with ranged attacks. Alistair is almost feeling hopeful. Compared to the chaos of Adamant – the mages, the demons, and the air thick with the smell of lyrium and blood – this seems relatively easy in comparison.

The path suddenly opens up into a circular clearing, lined with jagged rocks and with what appears to be a broken mirror standing at its centre. Alistair feels like the mirror should be familiar, though he can’t quite figure out why.

Eleri walks toward the mirror, gripped with her unshakeable curiosity. She raises a hand as if to press her fingertips to the few shards of glass still holding to the frame but before Alistair can call out to stop, a ring of rage demons spring from the blackened earth.

Alistair immediately charges at the nearest demon, knocking it off balance with his shield before bringing his sword down cleanly into its neck. The demon roars as it bucks back then bellows again as it dives forward to attack him. He lifts his shield in time to block the attack but he can hear a searing sound as the flaming creature pushes against the metal and his arm is beginning to feel uncomfortably warm as the shield heats up. He pushes hard, swinging his shield upward to strike the demon in its ghoulish face, then pushes his sword deep into the demon’s chest. There’s a sigh as the demon’s flames turn to black and then it crumbles into a pile of ash, extinguishing almost as quickly as it appeared.

He pivots in search of his next target when the voice returns.

“Perhaps I should be afraid, facing the most powerful members of the Inquisition,” laughs the Nightmare, both bellowing and softly lilting at the same time.

The demon taunts them in turn – tells Cassandra there is no Maker, reminds Hawke of the people she has failed to protect, blames Varric for atrocities outside of his control. They try to ignore it, try to push the words aside and focus on defeating the horde of rage demons that surrounds them. It’s hard though; these aren’t just the childish jeers of a schoolyard bully. The demon doesn’t cackle or jeer. Its words are precise, measured. Words are wielded like a weapon – every insecurity tugged from each victim’s subconscious, the unspoken fears they try not to admit, even to themselves.

“Did the King’s bastard think he could prove himself?” sneers the Nightmare, “it’s far too late for that. Your whole life, you’ve left everything to more capable hands. The Archdemon, the throne of Ferelden – who will you hide behind now?”

Alistair shivers, a sharp chill rolling along his spine, as he stabs his sword into one of the last remaining rage demons. He’s trying to pretend that he didn’t hear the Nightmare’s mockery, that he’s too preoccupied with watching the rage demon fizzle into oblivion. But it’s hard to ignore the Nightmare’s words. It’s hard to ignore them because they’re true, of course, every single one of them. 

His exile after the Landsmeet meant he never actually confronted the Archdemon, and he never, _ever_ wanted anything to do with his tenuous claim to the Ferelden throne. Even with his most recent efforts to help the Inquisition find the Wardens, there had been many times when he’d thought Hawke far more suitable for the task, when he’d wanted to return to his life of aimless mercenary work and let the Champion of Kirkwall play the hero once more. 

But he hadn’t given up – he’d persevered and succeeded – he’d _found the Wardens,_ even if they were in a sorry state when he did. Surely that counts for something? Surely his efforts had not been in vain.

“Is that all it’s got?” he scoffs, eager to show that he’s not fazed by the Nightmare’s taunts. And the more he thinks about it, the more he starts to believe it. Because while the Nightmare’s words are true – that doesn’t mean they have to _stay_ true. Alistair is not ruled by his past; it is what he does in the here and now that defines him.

_Fuck the Nightmare._

“And little Bronwyn… what are you doing so far from home?” asks the Nightmare, gently, almost amiably. “You thought you were too smart for the provincial life. You thought you were destined for greater things. You were wrong; you are destined only for failure. Your mother would be _so_ disappointed in you.”

Alistair hears Bron’s sharp intake of breath at the mention of her mother. Her face wears its usual mask of calm indifference but he can tell from the tightness in her shoulders that the Nightmare’s words have not gone unheeded.

“Bron?” Alistair prods cautiously, trying to subtly express his concern without openly asking how she feels. If she _is_ upset, she won’t want Alistair drawing attention to it.

Bron just shrugs, nose curled disdainfully, “I have three older brothers – their taunts are far more inventive than anything this creature can come up with.”

He can’t tell whether she’s bluffing – whether she really is as unconcerned with the demon’s taunts as she appears to be – but decides not to push further. If she wants to tell him how she feels, she’ll do it when she’s ready.

“Do you think you can fight me?” the Nightmare continues, “I am your every fear come to life. I am the veiled hand of Corypheus himself. The demon army you fear at Adamant? They are bound all through me.”

Eleri stops in her tracks then, ears twitching with interest. She turns to look at her small band of followers and Alistair is intrigued to see a small, pleased smile twist at her mouth.

“Excellent,” Eleri practically purrs, pitching her voice loud enough so that the Nightmare can hear her, “so if we banish you, we banish all of the demons at Adamant. Thank you, friend, for your kind help.” 

Her tone is cloyingly sweet, clearly enjoying this chance to strike back at the Nightmare, to taunt him as he has taunted them. The demon responds with a mighty roar, a burbling snarl that makes the very ground beneath them shake.

His anger only serves to spur them on and Eleri leads her team out of the small clearing and through the Fade’s twisting path with renewed fervour. They’ve achieved only a small victory against the Nightmare but it’s enough – enough to make them believe that the monumental task ahead of them really isn’t as impossible as originally believed.

The fighting gets more intense as they travel further into the Nigthmare’s lair. It is no longer just wraiths they face but an assortment of powerful demons – snapping, clawing, seething masses of hunger and death.

While Eleri and her companions take the lead, Alistair and Bron stick together at the rear of the party to stop the demons from routing their position. They wheel around each other, ducking when the other thrusts, twisting when the other slices. And moving, always moving, never giving the demons a clear shot. It’s exhausting work and Alistair doesn’t know how much longer he can last or how his failing strength will measure up against the Nightmare itself.

The path leads them into a tunnel and as they reach the end of the tunnel, Alistair can see the swirling vortex of the Rift just ahead.

“The Rift!” Hawke shouts enthusiastically, “We’re almost there!”

Hawke is only vocalising what they are all thinking but Alistair wishes that she’d stayed silent. Voicing such optimism seems like too much of a temptation, an invocation for something truly terrible to happen.

“You must get through the Rift, Inquisitor,” says the Divine spirit, appearing just as suddenly as she had disappeared before, “get through and then slam it closed with all your strength. That will banish the army of demons – and exile this cursed creature to the farthest reaches of the Fade.”

Encouraged by the Divine’s words, Eleri leads them at a punishing pace to the mouth of the tunnel and then out into a wide, round basin. Alistair can see the Rift just up ahead, a swirling tear in the sky through which he thinks he can make out the clear night skies of the Western Approach and a few twinkling stars. It’s probably his imagination but the sight is enough to make him quicken his pace against the angry protest of his legs.

“Stay alert,” warns Cassandra, and Alistair finds himself almost resenting her for advising caution (as childish and petulant as that may be). He _wants_ to be optimistic. He _wants_ to believe that salvation is close at hand, that they just need to reach the Rift and then be free of this wretched place. But the more rational part of him knows that Cassandra is right. He’s felt the prickle of suspicion at the back of his neck since they emerged from the tunnel into the wide, suspiciously empty basin. 

There’s a sudden screech and the rattle of movement, and then Alistair sees it. At the edge of the basin, between them and the Rift, emerges a creature, a huge, seething tangle of tentacles and long spindly legs. There’s no face, just a gaping maw lined with sharp, curved fangs. Tentacles hang from a large, pendulous body, which is held aloft by a dozen, insectoid limbs.

It is the most repulsive creature Alistair has ever seen, more hideous that anything he could ever have imagined. It’s huge – filling his field of vision like a great writhing mountain of flesh. He remembers vaguely his encounter with a High Dragon near the Temple of Sacred Ashes during the Blight. He’d been so afraid then, had thought the dragon larger than any beast he would ever face.

Oh, how he would scoff at a High Dragon now.

Everyone stands locked in place. Against a creature of such enormity, surely there is no strategy or tactic that could possibly lead their paltry group to victory. He’s not even sure where they would start. With concerted effort, they might be able to sever one of the massive, gangly legs. But then what of the others? What of the whipping tentacles, the snapping mouth? What can arrows and swords do against such a mountainous monstrosity?

The spirit wearing the Divine’s face hovers into view, her façade dissolving and shifting until she appears as only a luminous figure of light and gold. It’s an oddly encouraging sight, this golden lantern standing radiant against the encroaching darkness.

“If you would, please tell Leliana, _I’m sorry; I failed you too_ ,” says the Divine spirit to Eleri before turning, swooping through the air and darting toward the Nightmare.

There are sparks, a great golden canopy of magic that envelops the whole basin. Alistair can’t really see what’s going on but he can see a bright whiteness slamming into the Nightmare, can hear it’s muffled, animalistic cry. There’s a flash, a sharp ringing, and then when everything clears the Nightmare appears gone.

At least that’s what Alistair thinks.

As soon as his traitorous brain has had the temerity to celebrate the Nightmare’s seeming defeat at the hands of the Divine, he hears a skittering; an erratic scuttling that seems to be getting louder. That’s when he sees it, a demon crawling along the pocked ground toward where Eleri and her companions are standing dazed and disorientated.

It has a man’s body, though its limbs are impossibly stretched and grotesque. It’s dressed in rags, tattered and torn, giving it a ghostly, almost ephemeral appearance. A sharp ridge protrudes from its spine and eight massive spider’s legs carry it along the ground. It reaches forward with its impossibly long arms as it scurries toward them, grabbing and snatching at the air with narrow, clawed fingers.

Suddenly it jumps, and Alistair braces himself for when it comes crashing to the ground. But it doesn’t land, instead floating in the mist-filled air with its spidery legs scrabbling at the air.

Hawke is the first to react, sending a ball of sizzling fire that bursts into the demon’s chest. The effect is minimal, the demon shuddering slightly but looking mostly unaffected, but the flash of magic is enough to pull everyone out of their frozen stupor and there’s a sudden frisson in the air as the Inquisition charges to attack.

Eleri unleashes a volley of arrows, firing in startlingly quick succession. Varric follows suit, firing slowly but methodically with thick bolts from his crossbow. Some of the projectiles find their mark but too many are merely batted away, plucked from the sky by a wave of magic unleashed by a casual wave of the demon’s hand.

Cassandra, Alistair and Bron surge forward with their blades held aloft but the demon deflects their attack with frightening ease. He pushes a wave of magic into the ground, manipulating the very earth through sheer force of will and causing it to roil and buckle beneath their feet. All three are sent tumbling to the ground, falling in twisted heaps.

It’s not a particularly impressive beginning.

Bron is the first to regain her footing (and Alistair curses his cumbersome armour as he struggles to pull himself upright once more) and she immediately darts forward, skipping across the misshapen ground as she attempts to circle behind the demon. But the demon will not be routed and with a great crack of its fist, great spikes of rock erupt from the ground, forcing Bron to dive out of the way.

 _This isn’t working_ , Alistair thinks, someone needs to draw the creature’s attention – someone needs to direct the demon’s magic so that the others can land a hit. 

“Oi!” Alistair shouts, falling into a low, grounded stance in preparation for the inevitable magical onslaught, “I’m not afraid of you – give me all you’ve got!”

The demon’s face contorts in what might be a smirk but looks too inhumane to really resemble any recognisable expression. With a shuddering scream, the demon swoops low to the ground, outstretched fingers grasping and grabbing in front of it as it reaches for Alistair.

Alistair stands his ground, long-sword held low to his side and shield raised before him. The air buzzes with magic as the demon nears and Alistair takes that as his cue to duck, rolling away from grasping hands, thought not before he feels something sharp claw along his scalp. With the demon within reach, Alistair strikes out, jabbing his sword downward, catching the demon’s tattered robes and pinning them to the ground. There’s a ripping sound as the fabric snags on Alistair’s sword but the fabric holds; the demon is trapped.

His companions waste no time. Cassandra and Bron both dash forward to hack determinedly at the demon’s spined back while the others unleash a steady onslaught of ranged attacks. The demon bucks and rears under the assault, wailing pitiably, until the fabric of its robes finally splits and the creature can take to the skies once more. 

Alistair starts to feel a little more hopeful; they’d landed a good number of hits.

But that optimism is soon quashed as the demon lets out a reverberating scream, a call to arms, that brings forward a swarm of shades. Their dark figures crowd the battlefield, their shuddering, squalling forms surrounding the Inquisition from all directions. Alistair lunges at one, pierces it with his sword before turning and bashing another with his shield. Bron is at his back, twisting with him every time he moves, ducking under his arm to strike, wheeling behind him when he leaves his back exposed. But there’s so many of them – too many of them – and Alistair is so distracted by the shades that he doesn’t see the demon unleash another wave of magic until it’s too late. 

A surge of magic shudders through the air and Alistair and Bron are both sent flying, skidding to the ground a few metres away and bouncing along the rocks like a skipping stone on water. It hurts – _a lot_ – and Alistair can’t stifle a pained groan as he drags himself reluctantly to his feet. At his side, Bron is somehow still managing to mask her discomfort under her usual calm façade but there’s a tremble in her legs and a bow to her back which betrays her own pain and exhaustion.

“Hawke!” Eleri’s voice cuts across the madness of the battlefield, “we need to thin the herd!”

Alistair doesn’t hear whether Hawke says anything in response but he does hear the boom of thunder and the crackle of electricity as Hawke unleashes a storm of lightening across the field. The shades hiss and buck as they’re struck with each lance of lightening and though their numbers are not completely diminished, Hawke has successfully managed to significantly reduce their numbers.

It’s enough to keep the Inquisition fighting, to stave off what might have otherwise been inevitable defeat.

Alistair and Bron charge back into the fray, hacking and stabbing with their blades to finish off those shades left alive but severely injured by Hawke’s magnificent feat of magical destruction.

It’s then that Alistair notices the demon cowering. One of Hawke’s branches of lightening had struck one of its spidery legs and that leg is now hanging scorched and lifeless at the side of its body. The demon is listing, flying unevenly as its useless leg pulls it off balance.

 _Is that it?_ Could lightening be the demon’s weakness?

“Hawke!” Alistair calls, “Your lightening! Use your lightening!”

Hawke turns her head at the sound of her name but she can only shake her head wearily in response to Alistair’s instruction. She looks exhausted, her face drawn and gaunt and her body trembling with exertion. Her staff is held in a white-knuckled grip of desperation and it’s only then that Alistair realises what a sorry state she’s in. She simply _can’t_ unleash another field of lightening so soon after the last attack.

 _They need to buy Hawke some time_.

Alistair runs at the demon with an a roaring battle cry that borders on the maniacal – if his friend needs more time, then that’s what he’ll get her. 

“Cassandra!” he shouts, “take the right, I have the left.” He turns to look at Bron over his shoulder, “Bron, can you-“

“Yes,” she snaps back before he can finish his question, “I’ve got this.”

Alistair charges forward, weaving between the constantly erupting pillars of rock, and skirts around to the demon’s left. He can see Cassandra on the other side of the battlefield, doing the same as she approaches the demon from its right. When they’re both close enough, they engage the demon at the same time, dividing its attention as they hack and slash from both sides.

Bron meanwhile runs at the demon head-on. Arrows and magic sling through the air mere inches from her head but she’s pushing all distractions from her mind, concentrating only on the demon before her. When she’s close enough, she dips into a skid, sliding along the floor, just below the demon’s reach. She raises her rapier, pierces flesh, and draws a jagged gash of red as she slides under the demon’s body.

A curtain of blood bursts in her wake, coating the rocky ground in a puddle of glassy crimson. Alistair is so busy watching Bron, delighted that she’d been able to land such a damaging hit, that he doesn’t see Hawke charging forward, doesn’t see her unleash her magic with an enraged snarl. He _does_ see the flash of light as a burst of powerful lightening is sent hurtling toward the demon. Her magic is a concentrated spear of power, a great sparking mass of light and heat. It burns with a searing white, popping as electricity burns across the demon’s ashen skin.

Alistair jumps back instinctually as Hawke’s magic consumes the demon with a crackling shower of energy. The demon is screaming, a high, desperate wail as the lightening burns from within and without. Alistair would have expected the sound to be satisfying but it’s too piercing, making his eardrums ache with its high-pitched keening. 

With a final, anguished cry, the demon finally collapses, its body disintegrating into smoke and dust as it hits the ground. They all stand and watch as the whorls of ash flurry and shake before finally settling into a sad heap on the ground. It’s as if they expect some trap – for the demon to burst to life once more – and no one dares to move until they are _absolutely certain_ that it is dead. There’s a moment of strange stillness as they wait. But it is dead – _it is dead_. Alistair lets the relief wash over him; _they’ve won_.

“Quickly!” Eleri barks, interrupting the silence, “to the Rift!”

Eleri rushes forward as her companions follow close behind. She’s less graceful than usual, stumbling over cragged outcroppings as she tears up a steep incline toward the Rift. Normally her steps are light and fast but exhaustion is pulling heavily at her feet. Only her desperation is forcing her onward. 

Alistair can feel the ground rumbling beneath his feet as he follows and he’s not sure whether the floor is shaking or whether his legs are simply trembling from exertion. But then the rocks seems to pitch and roil and Alistair knows then that it’s not just him, something really is causing the ground to shake. 

Then he sees it, a giant insectoid limb emerging from the mists and stamping on the ground between their group and the Rift. The Divine might have kept the Nightmare occupied for some time but it appears now that their luck has run out. Eleri only just manages to avoid the leg at the last moment, rolling to the side before quickly back-tracking. It seems somewhat futile; with a creature of that magnitude, there is nowhere safe for her to run.

The Nightmare is now looming above them, the Divine spirit nowhere in sight. The Rift is so close – _so fucking close_ – all they need to do is run for it. But with that lumbering demon in their way, there’s no way they’ll make it. 

“We need to clear a path!” Alistair shouts.

“Go!” Hawke shouts, “I’ll create a distraction.”

“No,” Alistair says, raising an arm to Hawke to block her path, “the Grey Wardens started this. It should be a Grey Warden who-“

“A Warden must help them rebuild!” Hawke retorts, “that’s _your_ job!”

“You’re the Champion!” Alistair insists, “I’m nobody.”

“You’re not _nobody_!” Bron says urgently, sensing the direction that the conversation is going and strongly vocalising her disapproval.

Eleri looks between them, utterly torn and broken. She’s tired – they all are – they’ve been fighting non-stop for hours, maybe even longer (who knows how time works in the Fade?). And he knows she wants to save everyone, knows she wants to lead everyone home to Skyhold. But there’s resignation on her face. She’s not naïve; she knows that what she wants is often very different from what needs to be done.

She throws him a pitying look, laced with apology and regret and a hundred other unspoken thoughts.

“Alistair,” she says, “Alistair stays."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hah - sorry about the cliff-hanger ending. Luckily, I actually wrote the next chapter at the same time as I wrote this one. So I only need to do some editing before that one is ready to post. So not TOO long to wait!
> 
> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	15. Do Not Hesitate to Leap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair takes on the Nightmare.
> 
> Two new chapters in two days! What shocking productivity! I felt so cruel for the last chapter's cliffhanger that I thought I should post this chapter pretty sharpish...

His stomach drops.

Even though it’s what he wanted. He _wanted_ to stay and face the Nightmare while the others fled. He wouldn’t have offered to stay had he not meant it. But there’s a tiny, traitorous part of him that wishes that he weren’t so noble, that wishes he’d made the selfish choice and let Hawke stay instead.

But Thedas needs Hawke. She’s the Champion, a woman of unimaginable power and charisma. She’d almost single-handedly held the City of Kirkwall together; she’d started a revolution that had completely altered the face of Thedas. He knows from conversations with Varric that it was _she_ who Cassandra had originally sought out for Inquisitor. She is a figurehead; she is a hero.

And Alistair is nothing. Alistair is a bastard, an unwanted orphan, a failed Templar, an exiled Warden. He’d moved from place to place his whole life, never wanted, never belonging. He’d spent the better part of the last decade aimlessly wandering around the Free Marches and getting blindingly drunk. He is no hero.

His death would not be mourned like Hawke’s would. Who would mourn him? He has no family. He has few friends. The Wardens would not lament the death of their long-exiled comrade. Leliana would be sad for a time perhaps but that sadness would soon pass.

_Bron_ , shouts a voice inside his head, _Bron will mourn you_.

And he supposes she will. She might not love him like he does her but he knows that she _does_ care for him. Would she have put up with him for this long if she didn’t? If she didn’t care for him then surely she would have just delivered him to the Inquisition as intended and then moved on to other tasks. But instead she’d followed him to Adamant, fought with him to the bitter end. 

Yes, Bron will mourn him. It might not be much – just one soul lamenting the loss of his – but it’s enough.

He knows he should say goodbye. Say goodbye to Eleri, who gave him a second chance of proving himself worthwhile; say goodbye to Hawke, who refused to let him wallow in self-pity and misery during his exile.

But most of all, he should say goodbye to Bron – _precious, precious Bron_ – who saw the best in him, who inspired him, who filled these last few months with laughter and friendship and _love_. If they were characters in one of Varric’s books, he would wrap her in his arms, hold her tight, kiss her thoroughly and completely. But he can’t say goodbye – can’t touch her, can’t even talk – because he knows his resolve will crumble if he does. 

So instead he turns, and he runs.

“For the Wardens!” he shouts as he charges toward the Nightmare. He’s not really sure why that’s his battle cry – it’s not like he’s much of a Warden anymore. But his short time under Duncan was really the only time in his whole life that he had felt like he was home and it seems as good a cry as any other.

He can hear shouting behind him, immediately recognises the voice as Bron’s. And though he can’t make out what she’s saying, he can tell from the tone that she’s angry. For a moment he’s almost glad that the Nightmare will kill him – surely he’d rather face an angry demon than an angry Bron?

He stifles a laugh.

Eleri and her companions are nowhere to be seen, the Nightmare fills his entire field of view. All he can see is a mass of writhing pink flesh and a curtain of roving tentacles. He hopes that they’ve already run passed, that they’re already well on their way to the Rift.

He brings up his long-sword with a cry and slices through the first tentacle he reaches, then another and another. The Nightmare screams, it’s body twitching with pain at his assault. Great sheets of saliva fall from the creature’s gaping maw and Alistair struggles to maintain his balance on the water-slicked stone. He keeps on running, slicing at tentacles. The Nightmare’s body comes thrusting down as it snaps at him with its fang-lined mouth. Alistair raises his shield more out of instinct than any genuine belief that he can deflect the blow.

A fang comes through the shield, piercing easily through the metal and missing his arm by mere centimetres. Alistair is pulled off his feet as the Nightmare moves, dangling from his shield where it is thoroughly wedged on the demon’s fang. He drops his sword and starts tugging at the shield’s straps to free his arm. When the straps finally come lose, his body falls to the ground with a sharp thunk that makes his bones rattle. His back was already sore from when the Pride Demon threw him into a wall, now it’s in utter agony.

He’s fallen several metres from his sword and now stands without weapon or shield under the writhing mass of the Nightmare.

Shit.

He starts running for his sword, though he knows the weapon is little use to him. Even with his sword in hand, could he ever deliver a deadly blow against such an enormous foe? No, it is clear to him that his death is inevitable. But he wants to at least give up a good fight before the end. And besides – Alistair is angry. He’s angry that the Wardens were seduced by the Venatori into aiding Corypheus; he’s angry that he was betrayed by someone he called friend and sent into exile; he’s angry that he was sent from his uncle’s house as a child and forced into the Chantry; he’s angry that he was abandoned by an indifferent father. Alistair has endured so much shit in his relatively short lifetime and he’s _angry_ and now – at the end of all things – he wants to channel that anger and make this demon _suffer_.

Tentacles reach for him as he runs, snapping the air as he jumps and ducks out of their way. His sword is just ahead and he dives the last few feet until the sword is just within his grasp. His fingers graze the edge of the hilt when a tentacle wraps around his waist and he is pulled off the ground. The tentacle shakes him back and forth and he can feel his brain rattling, his bones shaking with each fierce lurch. He’d hoped that death would come quickly but he should have guessed that the Nightmare would like to play with its victim before letting the end come. 

Suddenly he’s sent flying to the ground and he skids along the hard floor before coming to a halt. At first he assumes that the tentacle threw him to the ground, toying with him, but then he sees that the tentacle is still wrapped around his waist. Only the tentacle is no longer attached to the Nightmare’s body; it has been cleanly sliced, red gore oozing out of the open wound.

_What in the void?_

A spurt of red gore streams from the Nightmare’s body where the tentacle was severed and Alistair must be concussed from the fall – or perhaps it’s some trick of the Fade – because he’s sure he can see Bron beneath the cascade of red, hacking determinedly at tentacle after tentacle with Alistair’s long-sword in hand.

She spins and ducks to avoid the searching grasp of the tentacles, hacking them off one after another. When the great, fanged mouth snaps at her, she thrusts the sword above her, causing the creature to flinch and giving her enough time to roll away. It’s an impressive ballet of movement and Alistair is painfully reminded of just how clumsy he is in comparison.

He needs to get up, needs to get off the floor and help her… somehow. He wriggles to free himself from the grip of the severed tentacle (still strong even in death) then staggers unsteadily to his feet. He runs toward Bron. He doesn’t know whether he can help or whether he’ll just prove a hindrance but he doesn’t really care. All that matters is that Bron is here and that he needs to be by her side.

She doesn’t greet him when he reaches her, simply thrusts his sword into his hands. “You probably want to keep hold of this,” she quips, smirking wickedly as she removes her own blade from the sheath at her belt.

He smiles at her attempt at humour – amazed that she’s here, that she’s alive, that’s she _making jokes_ – but his joy is a short-lived thing. Whatever happiness he feels at seeing her is immediately quashed when he thinks – _she shouldn’t be here_. She was supposed to run with the others. She was supposed to be safe. He wanted to sacrifice himself so that _she could be safe_. But instead she’s here with him and she’s going to die with him and it’s… it’s all wrong!

The Nightmare thrusts his body down and Alistair grabs Bron around the waist to pull her away from a large, protracted fang. The sharpened tooth clinks against the stone floor and there’s an ear-piercing shriek as it’s dragged along the ground. Bron brushes Alistair aside then dives forward to pierce a wildly shaking tentacle. He admires her determination but he knows it’s pointless; no matter how many tentacles they chop off, there always seems to be more. And what if they did manage to sever each and every tentacle? How would they then destroy the Nightmare completely? How does one defeat an enemy who has feasted on fear from thousands of years of misery?

“We can’t win this,” he mutters, more to himself than to Bron but she raises her head sharply when he speaks nonetheless.

“If we cannot win, then we must retreat,” she responds, and while her suggestion is a perfectly sensible one, Alistair’s not sure whether it’s actually feasible. This is no ordinary battlefield – this is the Fade – and he’s not sure whether retreat is even possible when the enemy is a manifestation of your own terror.

“Where-?”

“No questions. Just-” she pushes him, nods toward the tunnel that led them to the Nightmare in the first place, “run!” 

There’s a moment of hesitation. If he runs, will Bron follow? Will the Nightmare? But there’s not enough time for questions; indecision will only kill them both.

Alistair runs.

He thrashes his sword around his head as he sprints across the gore-riddled field. He’s not aiming at anything, just hoping that he will somehow manage to keep away the tentacles and the Nightmare’s chomping mouth. He can’t really see Bron, although he thinks he can sense her just over his shoulder. He can’t turn around to check that she’s there, it will only slow him down and he needs to hurry and reach the tunnel before the Nightmare reaches them.

He can hear the demon behind them, the towering legs cracking stone as each spidery limb takes a step forward. The ground shakes with each colossal step and Alistair is already so unsteady on his feet that it takes all his concentration not to fall.

He ducks when he reaches the tunnel entrance, though the roof of the tunnel is high enough that there’s no chance that he could hit his head. But he’s not really thinking straight, just running on pure instinct as he makes this desperate last bid for safety. A second after he’s entered the tunnel, there’s a resounding crash as the Nightmare hits into the tunnel’s entrance. It’s too big to fit inside of course, but its skittering legs grope and grasp at the ground.

When Alistair finally stops running, he’s about halfway through the tunnel. He can still see the Nightmare desperately pawing at the entrance but he can also see light from the other end. He collapses onto the stone floor – exhausted, entirely spent. With clumsy fingers, he pulls at the buckles of his armour. It’s too heavy – too hot. He can barely move, the splintmail trapping his wearied limbs like a cage. He just needs to get it off – _now_.

When he finally shucks the last piece of his armour he immediately sucks in a deep breath of air. It’s not cool like he would expect, instead stale and warm. But he supposes it’s better than nothing. Without the armour, his chest can rise and fall freely with each breath. His limbs feel lighter. They’re still aching and stiff with exhaustion buts it’s… well, an improvement.

He suddenly bolts upright when he realises that he can’t see Bron (and he curses himself for being so mindless – for running without checking that Bron had followed) and is immensely relieved when he spies her a short way behind him, leaning heavily on a boulder and desperately gulping to regain her breath.

He walks over to her briskly. They’ve successfully reached the tunnel – and that’s an achievement that Alistair honestly did not expect – but they can’t stay here. The Nightmare will reach them eventually, even if it has to tear down the entire mountain of rock to reach them.

“We need to keep moving,” he says when he’s reached her, and he hates how cold he sounds, how practical, but their situation is still dire and he can’t risk emotion making him foolish. Trapped in the Fade, pursued by a demon, is still not the best place for emotional declarations.

“Where?” she asks between ragged gasps of air.

“I don’t know,” he responds truthfully, “the Divine spirit led us through this path; I’m not sure there are any others. If we follow this path back the way we came, it might just be a dead-end. The Nightmare will catch up with us again.”

“Why follow the path at all?” she asks, and it’s not the response Alistair was expecting. It sounds… honestly, it sounds a little crazy. He looks at her with open confusion. “We don’t need a specific path because we’re not trying to get anywhere,” she continues, “We’re just trying to get _away_. So don’t follow a path.”

“Then how-?

“We jump,” she replies matter-of-factly, as if her answer is obvious and he’s a fool for even asking.

Alistair just stares at her like she’s mad. And perhaps she is. After all, they are trapped in the Fade, pursued by a Nightmare demon, and with no possible route of escape. It’s enough to push anyone over the brink into the pit of insanity.

“The normal rules of reality don’t apply here,” she explains, her tone still steady and only mildly patronising, “Everything here is just… an expression of thought. We need to stop thinking of this place like it’s the normal world. We need to start – marshaling our thoughts.”

“So we… jump?” he asks, still uncertain, “and just – _think really hard_?”

It’s a ridiculous plan. It is genuinely the stupidest thing he has ever heard. She wants to jump into the nothingness of the Fade and think of escape and just hope and pray that they find sanctuary and don’t just fall to their deaths, or get caught by the Nightmare. 

“Do you have any better ideas?” she asks snappishly.

Hmm… no, he supposes, no he doesn’t. There’s nothing he can really say to argue. And, really, what’s the point in trying to argue anyway? He can think of no better suggestions, no other methods of escape. And besides, it has been his experience so far that things tend to work out for the best as long as he trusts in Bron. Why should things be any different now?

He grabs her hand, interlacing his fingers with hers, and gives a squeeze.

“Together?” he asks.

“Always,” she replies, returning the squeeze.

And then they run. Dashing from the tunnel, the echoing sound of the Nightmare behind them. They jump over rocks and ledges, abandoned furniture and the peculiar detritus of the Fade. They sprint up an incline, feet charging up the steep levee, pushed forward purely through momentum and determination. At the top of the slope, there is no hesitation, no pause.

They jump.

Beyond the rock there is nothing, an endless void punctured with distant floating mountains and rivers of light. Alistair’s not sure whether they’re falling upward or downward, or even if they’re moving at all. He cannot feel the wind in his hair, or the tug of gravity pulling him back to the ground; he can feel nothing at all.

It doesn’t really matter though. It doesn’t matter where they’re going, or where they’re not going. As long as the Nightmare does not follow. As long as he has Bron. As long as her hand stays snugly encased in his own.

That’s what matters – that’s _all_ that matters.

* * *

There is the void – an airless abyss. Sometimes there are rocks, molded into unnatural landscapes, or whorls of water that twist and turn like snakes. There’s light and mist and Bron’s not sure which way is up and which way is down. In fact, she’s not even sure whether ‘up’ and ‘down’ even really exist anymore. But she’s sure that she’s floating, not falling, or flying, just – _suspended_ in the nothingness. 

And then the nothingness is gone and instead there’s ground – it comes seemingly from nowhere; one moment she’s floating, the next her legs are shuddering as her feet hit solid stone and then they crumble beneath her and she falls into a heap on the floor. She knows she can’t stay here, splayed on the ground with her eyes scrunched tightly shut. She doesn’t know where she is, she doesn’t know whether the Nightmare followed – she has a hundred questions for which she needs answers. Answers that won’t be found while lying on the floor. She needs to scope her surroundings, identify any threats, devise some sort of plan of action.

But instead she stays still – she just needs this one moment, just a little time to catch her breath and process everything that’s just happened.

Her hand is still enclosed in Alistair’s, her fingers entwined with his, and she can feel him gripping tightly, almost painfully so. He’s spread out beside her, limbs trembling and breath laboured. She rolls over until she can see him properly, rakes her eyes over his battered body to reassure herself that he’s indeed alive. 

There’s a gash on his forehead, bleeding profusely, and a purple bruise blossoming over his left eye. His shirt is mottled with mud and great slashes of blood that stand jauntily in contrast to his dull, grimy shirt. Bron has no idea how much of the blood is his but she fears that he has suffered far more wounds than she can see.

“Are we safe?” he asks with a wheeze, eyes still wrinkled shut.

“I… I don’t know,” she admits. 

Alistair abruptly sits up, eyes now open and alert, then scrambles to his feet. He looks panicked, scanning the horizon in search of the Nightmare or worse. Bron follows, mirroring his movements, searching their immediate surroundings in search of danger. The Nightmare is nowhere to be seen, no wraiths, no demons of any kind. Wherever they are – they seem safe for now.

Alistair has clearly come to the same conclusion and some of the tension is released from his shoulders – not all, of course, they are still in the Fade after all, but he seems more at ease now than he has since they arrived in this world of unreality.

He suddenly turns to face her, mouth opening and closing a few times as if trying to say something but struggling to conjure the words.

Bron can understand his difficulty; she too has a world of words trapped behind her teeth. Words about the Fade, words about the Nightmare – mostly words about _him_. She thought he was going to die. When they fell from the Keep, when he ran to face the Nightmare – she’d thought him dead but instead he’s alive and he’s safe and she’s so… just, _so relieved_. But there’s not just relief. She’s scared, she’s happy, she’s mad, and a million other feelings that she can’t identify. She cares for him – she loves – 

No – wait – not now, not yet.

She opens her mouth. She should tell him something. She should tell him how glad she is that he still lives, how furious she is that he ran to certain death against the Nightmare (and without even trying to explain himself to her!). But before she can say anything, he steps forward and grips her shoulders forcefully.

“What in the void are you doing here?!” he shouts with more force than she would have expected from him. 

At first she’s confused by his reaction. Isn’t he happy to see her? Why is there such frustration in his eyes? But her confusion is soon replaced with anger – _she’s_ the one who should be shouting at _him_. _He_ tried to leave _her_ behind. “Are you _really_ yelling at me right now?!” she shouts back with equal force, “I just saved your life!”

“I didn’t need you to save my life,” he snarls, “I needed you to go through the rift!”

“I wasn’t going to leave you here,” she says, shocked that he would ever think it possible that she would leave him.

“Someone had to stay here,” he says, “someone had to distract the Nightmare long enough for everyone to escape. It had to be me.”

“But it didn’t have to be _only_ you,” she argues back, growing increasingly frustrated with his stubbornness but also his unexpectedly angry reaction.

“I wanted you to be safe!” he cries, and he gives her shoulders a little shake to punctuate his words.

His words only flame her anger. “I don’t give a shit about what _you_ wanted! What about what _I_ wanted?”

His eyes go wide for a moment then narrow thoughtfully. She can see the cogs whirring behind his eyes – he hadn’t thought of that; probably hadn’t even considered how his death would devastate her. And maybe _he doesn’t know_. Maybe he doesn’t realise the depth of her feelings for him, even after all this time.

“Did you really think I would leave you here?!” she cries, and there’s pain in her voice as well as anger, “after everything we’ve been through?”

“Yes, actually…” he says, then shrugs awkwardly, “kind of…”

“Then you’re a bloody idiot!” she snaps before sighing in frustration, trying to vent away her anger as she exhales. She suddenly realises just how close he’s standing, his hands still gripping her shoulders, and it’s easy for her to reach up and slowly stroke her palm against his blood-streaked cheek. When she starts talking again, her voice is softer, almost timorous, “I will _never_ leave you, Alistair. I will stay by your side no matter what. And if you fall – then I fall alongside you.” 

There’s confusion in his eyes – and maybe shock? And Bron thinks there might be a slight flush of pink in his cheeks but it’s hard to tell over the grime and gore. “I don’t understand,” he mutters, “ _why_?”

And his question nearly breaks her heart – he seems so utterly confused by the prospect that there is someone in the world willing to die for him. Does he really not see his worth?

“Because I _care about you_ , Alistair!” she shouts, louder than she’d intended. She tries to even out her tone, but she can’t stop her voice from trembling with emotion. “I care about you, Alistair. _More than anyone_. More than I dare to admit. The thought of losing you… I can’t bare it, I can’t – I can’t _breath_ , I-“

He moves then, stepping even closer and raising his hands to frame her face. He’s quick, darting his head forward then suddenly pausing with his lips a mere whisper away from her own. She’s not sure why he stopped – maybe waiting for some sign of permission?

She’s happy to oblige, wrapping her hands in the front of his shirt and pulling him down until his mouth meets hers in a blistering kiss. There’s a surge of warmth, followed by a pleasant flip-flop in the pit of her stomach. He’s standing so close, his body pressed flush against her own, towering above her smaller frame so that he’s forced to curl over her. It feels safe. It feels like coming home.

His lips move, coaxing hers open, nipping at her bottom lip before his tongue darts out to taste her. She tries to respond with equal fervour, tipping her head back so that he can deepen the kiss.

His hands are still framing her face and his thumbs gently stroke across her cheekbones and the faint smattering of freckles there. Her skin tingles at the gentle caress. It’s such a simple gesture – innocuous even – but with their bodies so close, their lips pressed together, it seems outrageously intimate. Her whole body thrums in response, a pleasant burning that coils all the way down to her toes.

She tightens her grip on his shirt, twisting her fists to hold him closer. She can feel him hum pleasantly against her lips, clearly amused at her eagerness.

When he finally breaks the kiss, he doesn’t pull away, merely rests his forehead against hers, his body still curved around her.

“I would have been happy dying,” he murmurs into the space between them, “knowing that you were alive.”

“Well I wouldn’t have been happy living – knowing that I’d left you to die,” she responds.

He smiles crookedly then, sharply arching one brow. “That was nice, _very poetic_. Did you get that from one of Varric’s books?” he teases.

“Oh shut up,” she warns, before pressing her lips against his again just to make sure he obeys.

They stand like that for what feels like an eternity, lips pressed together, bodies held flush against one another, Bron’s hands gripping fiercely at Alistair’s shirt as if afraid that he’ll run away should she let go. For the first time since they’d arrived, Bron finds herself grateful for the strange timelessness of the Fade – it almost feels like time doesn’t exist, _nothing_ exists, just Alistair’s warm body curving over hers protectively.

But they can’t stay like that forever, as much as Bron wishes it. They’re still in the Fade, and they will never be safe as long as they remain.

With great reluctance, Bron pulls away, taking a few steps back to put some distance between her and Alistair (and with some space between them, she hopefully won’t be tempted to simply kiss him again).

“We need to…to…” she stutters uncharacteristically, pushing a rebellious lock of hair behind her ear while she tries to gather her thoughts, “we need to find a way out of here.” 

He gives her a businesslike nod that is wholly out of place given his dishevelled appearance. He tugs at the bottom of his shirt to flatten the creases left behind by Bron’s vice-like grip. “ _Is_ there one?” Alistair asks when he’s managed to compose himself a little, “I mean, Eleri closed the Rift. Is there any other way out of the Fade?”

“There _has_ to be another way out of here,” she insists, “we have to – we have to at least _try_!”

He smiles at her, softly at first, but then broadening into an unexpected grin. She’s puzzled, curious as to why her words have inspired such a warm response. He’s staring at her with such open affection that Bron feels her cheeks begin to burn (and has anyone ever looked at her in such a way?). “You’re right,” he says with a gentle chuckle, “ _you’re right_ – we _have_ to try.”

She smiles at him in return. Even in their hopeless, impossible predicament, Alistair’s beaming grin is contagious.

“After the Breach opened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, smaller Rifts opened up all over Fereldaen and Orlais – maybe across the whole of Thedas,” she explains as Alistair nods in interest, “Eleri has been closing them one by one but… but there must be _some_ she’s yet to close. We just need to… we just need to find them!”

His smile falters as a hint of scepticism starts to creep across his features. “So we’re going to just… wonder the whole of the Fade until we stumble across a Rift back to the real world?”

His question causes her optimism to flag. “Yes… something like that,” she says, before sighing dejectedly, “It sounds silly when you put it like that. It sounds… _impossible_. But I don’t know what else we can do.”

He steps forward, takes her hands in his own and lifts them to his lips to press a kiss to her knuckles. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so pessimistic. You’re right – we have to try. We’ll walk across the whole of the Fade if we have to. Whatever it takes, we’ll do it.”

She gives a gloomy little shrug. “We might never find a Rift – we might be trapped here forever.”

“At least we’ll be trapped here together.”

“Together,” she echoes, looking up at him with a shy smile.

“Always.”

“How about…” he drops her hands and steps back, turns slowly as he looks around them. Finally, he stops, pointing across the horizon. “That way. It looks nice over there – the sky looks especially… swirly.”

She laughs, a bit thin, a bit brittle – but then it feels _nice_ to laugh again. “You’re right… very swirly. I think swirly is good.”

“See! We’re making excellent progress already,” he declares with a flamboyant wave of his hands, “We’re practically home already.”

She laughs again, this time a little fuller, a little stronger, and her mirth only grows when he starts laughing with her.

It is a _ridiculous_ situation. Ridiculous and impossible, and almost certainly doomed. They’re trapped in the Fade. They’ve only just narrowly escaped the Nightmare. The demon may yet find them. Or they may encounter another demon, even more powerful than the Nightmare. They might never find a Rift. They might wander the realms of the Fade forever.

It’s a terrifying possibility and Bron tries not to think about it too much. She won’t let her mind indulge in hopelessness – it’s impractical. She can almost hear her mother’s voice in her head. _There is nothing to be gained from pessimism_ , she would say, _it is better to act than be paralysed by fear_.

She needs to banish the negativity. Push aside her doubts (as reasonable as they may be) and focus on whatever tenuous hope she can muster. Focus on finding a Rift. Focus on just placing one foot in front of the other. Focus on Alistair, on his steady, comforting presence.

“Let’s go then,” she announces, “this way!”

She takes his hand and gently tugs him to follow as she starts to walk in the direction that Alistair had indicated. Towards the swirly sky, that’s where they’ll go, and hopefully towards a Rift, and freedom, as well.

They will try. They will try _together_ – now and always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I made y'all wait 15 chapters for a kiss - I hope it was worth it...
> 
> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	16. Sins of the Mother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bron has an unexpected visitor in the Fade.

One foot goes in front of the other.

That’s what Bron keeps telling herself.

One foot goes in front of the other. She just needs to put one foot forward, and then put the other one in front. Then again. And again.

That’s it.

It’s easy.

Except she’s been putting one foot in front of the other for several days now. At least she thinks it’s days. It could be weeks. It could be more.

They’ve slept a little. Or at least tried to. When their feet are too sore to carry on, when the steady rhythm of one foot and then the other falters, they find a little space to stop, and curl up for sleep. A cave perhaps, or a narrow gully between great towers of rock that seem to stretch endlessly toward nothing. It’s safer that way right? Safer to huddle in small spaces, out of sight, where the denizens of the Fade cannot find them.

It’s silly though – when Bron really thinks about it – to think that they can hide from the demons. It’s the Fade, for Maker’s sake! The rules of reality don’t apply here – maybe the demons don’t need sight to hunt their prey, maybe they can smell them, or simply sense their thoughts.

But Alistair likes to take the time to find somewhere ‘safe’ for them to rest and Bron likes to let him. Whether or not Alistair shares in Bron’s pessimism, it seems to make him feel better, this little pantomime of security, this search for a safe space amongst the horrors of the Fade. And Bron will not take away something that makes Alistair feel better, no matter how sure she is that his efforts are pointless.

Whether their safety is real or merely an illusion, Alistair still somehow manages to sleep soundly. And Bron is bitterly resentful of this fact. 

Bron has always been an excellent sleeper. It is an odd skill to brag about but over the years she had come to realise that it is truly an invaluable talent. While others complain of fitful sleep leading to unproductive days, Bron can smugly declare that she has never had a bad night’s sleep, and therefore always operated at peak efficiency. And she can find restful sleep anywhere: propped upright in a rickety wagon, curled up in her favourite chair in the Val Royeaux library, even wedged between icy moraine that time she and Leliana had first travelled through the Frostbacks to Haven and got _just a little bit_ lost.

And so it causes Bron a great deal of distress that she cannot find deep, restful sleep in the Fade. She dozes, of course, her eyes so leaden with fatigue that nothing could keep them from closing. But it is not the kind of real, _replenishing_ sleep that she so desperately desires. And so she curls deeper into Alistair’s side, buries her nose into his shirt, and tries to let the soft lull of his breathing provide some modicum of relief, some tiny semblance of succor that sleep refuses to grant her.

It isn’t much, but it’ll have to do.

One foot. That’s the key. Just one foot in front of the other.

Try not to think about how tired you are, Bron, try not to think. Just one foot in front of the other.

Try not to think of how tired you are Bron… or how your stomach growls.

And, _oh_ , how it growls.

They’ve barely eaten in days. The meager rations they’d taken with them to the battle at Adamant had not lasted long, and neither of them trusts the food that they occasionally encounter while wondering the Fade.

It’s odd - well, odd and _supremely creepy_ – these little tableaus scattered across the Fade. There was that bowl of fruit on a desk so laden with books that it looked mere moments away from total collapse. There was that loaf of bread sitting on the ground next to an abandoned sword and shield. And there was that feast – the most magnificent spread Bron had seen since leaving Orlais – crowding a dinner table clearly set up for a party. There were great bouquets of flowers, and exotic animals folded out of napkins, and silverware that shone like stars amongst the inky gloom of the Fade’s perpetual mists. There were meats and cheeses, great goblets of wine and platters of delicately styled cakes – everything required for a great party, only eerily devoid of revellers.

They’d steered clear of that. Had turned and walked away as soon as they’d seen it – hadn’t even got close enough to smell it. It had looked too much like a trap, too much like temptation.

And so their bellies are left to rally and roil, a constant protest at their continued neglect. Although… it’s not quite _right_ , this hunger. It’s like the memory of hunger, like her body remembers that it needs to eat and is telling her that it’s hungry but she can’t quite _feel_ it, can’t feel the heaviness in her limbs nor the dizziness that she’s experienced when desperately hungry in the past. Does one even _need_ to eat in the Fade? Or is it all just an allusion? A mere phantom of what she _should_ be feeling rather than an actual feeling. 

Don’t think about it, Bron. Don’t think about the gnawing in your stomach. Don’t think about whether it’s real. Don’t think about whether _anything_ is real.

Just put one foot in front of the other. One more step, just one more.

And then another.

And another.

The exhaustion doesn’t bother her. Just one foot in front of the other.

The hunger doesn’t bother her either. Just one foot in front of the other.

_But her mother..._

Her feet falter, one foot kicking into the heel of the other, and she hops ungainly for a few steps until she can regain her balance and resume her original pace.

Over her shoulder, her mother tuts disapprovingly. Bron knows the approbation to come; she’d had it drilled in her since childhood. Clumsiness is next to laziness. Only the indolent are so casual with their movements. Elegance is the hallmark of the hard-working.

“You used to move with such grace,” her mother comments, and her voice is pitched almost as if it’s a compliment, “but now you’re growing clumsy.”

Bron ignores her mother’s voice and continues to stare at her feet. One foot forward, and then the other.

“Remember when I taught you to dance?” her mother continues, “You had such a natural talent for movement. Just like me. You learnt the moves so quickly. But do you know why I taught you?”

Bron stays silent; she knows her mother will answer for her.

“Well… I taught you for two reasons. The first – because every woman should know how to dance among polite society. It’s only proper. And second – and more importantly – because it teaches you how to _move_. How to listen to your body. How to control the space around you. And that is what you need to do, Bronwyn, you need to take control.”

Bron’s not sure how to ‘take control’ in the Fade. So far all she’s been trying to do is survive and that seems as good a goal as any when lost in this realm where no person is ever meant to tread. 

“And stand up straight,” her mothers barks, “your posture is terrible.”

“Shut up,” Bron hisses through clenched teeth, “you’re dead.”

From just ahead, Alistair turns to look at her from other his shoulder.

“Did you say something?” he asks.

“No,” she replies, curt and sharp.

She can tell that he wants to ask something else, can tell from the knot in his brow that he’s concerned by her brusqueness, but he doesn’t say anything further, only turns back and continues his never-ending trudge forward.

He’s probably trying to be respectful of her space; he knows that she doesn’t like people interfering when she’s trying to think. Or maybe he’s just too tired to carry on talking to her. She’s been short with him for days now – dismissive, _almost mean_ – and she doesn’t blame him for having given up on trying to be civil with her.

And she feels bad for being so short with him – or at least she would feel bad if she weren’t too tired and hungry to really feel anything – but she doesn’t want him to know about her new spectral companion. If she told him, he’d probably think she was crazy. _And perhaps she is_. But she’d rather not admit that right now, not to herself and certainly not to him.

“He’s concerned about you,” her mother says. Bron finds herself nodding in spite of herself. 

“You don’t need his concern,” her mother adds with a sneer, “you don’t need anyone. I raised you to be self-sufficient, to be strong. You are a fortress, my dear, and no man can weaken your walls.” 

Bron nods again. Not because she agrees, or is even really listening, but because it’s what she’d always done when her mother had spoken to her.

Her mother moves forward so that she can walk beside her, her steps in tandem with Bron’s. Bron can just see her hovering at the edge of her vision; her movements smart and clipped, her back straight and proud. Her gait is so achingly familiar that Bron feels a twinge of… _something_. Longing, perhaps, for a woman she’d lost so long ago. Guilt, maybe, for being so ungrateful at her sudden return.

 _But this isn’t your mother_ , Bron’s brain urges emphatically.

Her mother is dead. Bron knows this. _Of course_ she knows this. The memory is still painfully fresh, even after all these years, even through the haze and the confusion of the Fade. Her mother had become ill. It had been brief, and severe, and then she’d died. Just like that – a towering vision of a woman snuffed out like a lamp in a storm.

And Bron had been so utterly bewildered that such a thing could have even been possible. Her mother had been so strong, an imposing edifice of efficiency, dedication and hard work. She had been unrelenting, an unstoppable force, an unmatchable frisson of activity and purpose. The whole town had relied on her strength. There was no quarrel that she was not called upon to adjudicate (for who could be more impartial than the stalwart Margreth?) and no major task that was undertaken without having first sought her opinion (and, occasionally, permission – not that her permission was required – but she had the kind of stately baring that made people want to seek it out nonetheless). 

But in the end it didn’t matter how much the denizens of Highever respected her, or how much her family relied on her, or how _keenly_ her only daughter adored her. Death came swift and ugly and inevitable.

And Bron had mourned.

Bron had mourned _bitterly_. Or at least – she’d mourned as much as her mother would have wanted, which is not very much at all. Grief is unseemly after all. And so Bron had wept for exactly one day, one wrenching day of misery, and then she’d rolled her shoulders back, lifted her chin, and got on with her life as if nothing had happened. 

Bron wishes now that she’d mourned her mother properly, that she’d wept and screamed and railed at the injustice of the whole thing. If she’d let out all her emotions then, rather than bottling them up for over a decade, perhaps she wouldn’t feel so shaken now. Perhaps she wouldn’t so desperately want to scream.

 _Oh, how she wishes she could scream_! But then Alistair really would think she was crazy.

“He’s made you weak,” her mother says, a hissing whisper between pursed lips.

Bron pointedly ignores her, staring intently at her feet as if they are some fascinating new discovery.

“He’s an exile, a reject, a wandering drunk. How can a man like that be anything to a woman like you?”

Bron feels a sharpness ripple down her spine. She doesn’t like to hear someone speak so ill of Alistair, especially her mother, the one person whose good opinion had always meant more than anyone else’s.

During their months of travel together, Bron had often wondered what her mother would make of Alistair, whether she would disapprove of his exile from the Wardens or admire him for making a stand against what he thought of as an injustice, even against his closest of friends. She likes to think the latter; that her mother would have seen Alistair as Bron does – a deeply flawed, frequently lost individual, but someone who perseveres in spite of those flaws and seeks to better the lives of all he meets.

Yes – Bron likes to think that her mother would have liked Alistair a great deal; the spectre’s sneering to the contrary upsets her more than she cares to admit.

“He’s a good man,” Bron states plainly, though she stresses each word to labour her conviction. And she knows she shouldn’t respond – she knows that she should just ignore the apparition – but she can’t stop herself from defending him.

“You deserve better than good, my dear, you deserve greatness,” replies her mother, shaking her head disapprovingly, perhaps even pityingly. “That’s why you left Highever, isn’t it? That’s why you left your father and brothers? Because you thought you were destined for something greater. You wanted more than just dull domesticity.”

“I know it’s not what you wanted,” Bron admits with a sigh, shaking her head as if shaking away the guilt that’s coiled at the back of her mind, the guilt that she usually manages to ignore but which is now alert and writhing in response to her mother’s sudden reappearance. “You wanted me to keep the family together, like you did. You wanted me to start my own family, to support them and guide them and build them up like you did. But I couldn’t do it and I-”

“No – hush,” her mother interrupts before Bron can apologise further. “You did your part; you kept the family together just like I taught you. But when you had the chance to start your own life, you took it – and I’m proud of you.”

Bron stops suddenly; stops and stares with astonishment at this vision that wears her mother’s face.

“You’re…. _proud_ of me?” she asks with a trembling, almost child-like, voice.

“Of course I’m proud of you!” her mother responds with unusual fervour, raising a hand to rest it against Bron’s cheek. It feels surprisingly warm. Not at all like the ghostly impermanence she’d been expecting but something solid and comforting and _real_. “You’ve achieved so much! Serving the Divine, helping the Inquisition! You were blessed with so many gifts – and you’ve used those gifts in the service of others. How could I not be proud of you?”

Bron feels, well… _bewildered_ most of all. Bewildered but also pleased and just… _supremely touched_. There’s a prickling of tears in her eyes and she blinks rapidly to suppress them, determined not to do something as shameful as crying in front of her mother. She’d never heard her mother speak so fondly of her – never heard such glowing praise – and she’s determined not to ruin the moment with an embarrassing display of emotion.

 _Her mother is proud of her_.

Margreth had never been the kind of woman to dole out compliments or encouragement – they were indulgences and, as such, completely unnecessary to a successful and productive life – and Bron had been left to wonder her whole childhood whether or not her mother approved of her, whether she truly cared for her. And while she’d assumed ( _hoped most desperately_ ) as a child that her mother was proud of her, it was nice to finally have some confirmation. 

“Oh, mother,” Bron whimpers as the first fat tears streak across her cheeks.

“Oh, stop that,” her mother gently chides, swiping away at the damp stripes with the pads of her stout, calloused fingers, “who has the time to waste on tears?”

Bron laughs at that – it’s such a familiar sentiment, spoken with such a _sorely_ familiar tone. Life is short, her mother would say, time is precious – we must make the most of every single moment, not waste it on emotional outbursts. Bron feels like a child again; she feels like she’s home.

“Now, now – you shouldn’t be here,” her mother says, fixing her with one of those stares that always meant _listen to me, I’m about to say something important_. “You shouldn’t be in the Fade. No one is meant to be here. Let me help you out of here. You want to go home, right? To the Inquisition? To your friends?”

Bron nods her head then sniffs loudly before replying. “We’re looking for a way out right now. Alistair and I-” 

“Oh pfft!” her mother interrupts with a dismissive shake of her head, “you think he’s helping you escape? He’s the one who’s keeping you here…” Her words vanish into a whisper, a conspiratorial hush that gives them surprising menace. She looks quickly from side-to-side, face scrunched in concern as if afraid that they’re being watched.

Surprised by her mother’s sudden wariness, Bron does likewise, scanning her surroundings but seeing nothing and no one except Alistair who, having not realised Bron’s sudden pause, is quickly marching ahead.

Surely her mother is wrong – surely Alistair cannot _purposefully_ be keeping them trapped in the Fade…

“He’s a Warden, after all,” her mother continues in the same secretive whisper as before, “and the Wardens have sided with the demons, with Corypheus. He tricked you into coming here – and now he’s going to keep you here.”

“Why would he do that?” Bron asks, and there’s a desperate tremor to her voice that catches her off guard. Why is she suddenly so scared? It can’t be because she _believes_ what her mother is saying about Alistair.

“Because the demons _want you_ , Bronwyn!” her mother says, “You’re so strong, my dear, so smart. The demons want you and the Warden has made a deal to give you to them. He wants power, you see. He’s weak – a failure, an exile – and he’s made a deal with the demons to exchange you for power. _He’s using you_.”

“He – he wouldn’t do that,” Bron insists, though she can hear her own doubt colouring her words. She’d opened herself to Alistair, let herself be vulnerable even against her better judgement – the possibility that he is betraying her is enough to make her throat tighten with fear.

“It’s his fault you’re here, isn’t it?” her mother asks with a pointed arch of one brow. “If he hadn’t charged the Nightmare. If he hadn’t brought you to Adamant – all of this was just a trick to bring you here!”

Bron is about to object, to defend Alistair against her mother’s accusations, but the words are lost as soon as she opens her mouth. Because it _is_ Alistair’s fault that she’s here. She had stayed in the Fade to protect Alistair from the Nightmare. She wouldn’t have even _been_ at Adamant had she not followed Alistair out of some misguided loyalty, some _now baffling_ urge to keep him safe.

 _Maker_ – all these months, he’d probably been befriending her just to trick her into coming here. His supposed feelings for her were just a ruse! He must have known what the Wardens were up to all along, he must have known about the rituals and the blood magic and the giant rift to the Fade in Adamant’s Keep!

Everything suddenly seems to focus into startling clarity. For the first time since she’d arrived in the Fade, the swirling mists and the haze of scattered light seem to lift and Bron is finally seeing things properly for the first time.

Alistair tricked her. 

Alistair had _always_ been tricking her.

He’d tricked her with kindness, chipping away at her sturdy exterior to leave her shallow and vulnerable. He’d claimed that he cared for her – he’d kissed her dammit! – all to lead her into the awaiting claws of the demons.

And it all makes sense now! Because _of course_ he doesn’t care for her! How could he _possibly_ care for her? She who has always felt separate from other people; a silent observer rather than an active player in the stories of others. She is not meant for love, only duty.

She feels so foolish, so utterly, utterly foolish. Her mother had taught her to be self-sufficient, to be independent and intelligent and wary. Romance is a myth; idealism and adventure are just fantasies for the incompetent and the idiotic. She should have known better; she never should have let some blonde-haired temptation trick her with his crooked smiles and his easy laughs.

Thank the Maker that her mother had intervened before she’d met her demise. Thank the Maker for sending her mother back to her, the only person on whom Bron had ever been able to _truly_ depend.

“It’s all right, my dear,” her mother coos, gently stroking her hair in a comforting gesture. It feels wrong, this oddly intimate act – seems wholly out of character for a woman who had never given physical contact easily. But Bron had wanted this so much as a child, had craved desperately for any fleeting indication of affection, and while the rational part of her mind tells her that something is wrong, she’s too enthralled to care. “I’m here now, Bronwyn, and I’m going to help you escape. I’m going to lead you away from this terrible place.”

“What do I have to do?” Bron murmurs, lost and small. 

Her mother smiles – a little too wide, a little too curled – and for a split second the woman no longer looks like her mother, no longer even looks human. She looks like a beast, feral and thrilled, about to claim its prey. But then the moment is gone, lost with the blink of an eye, and her mother is wearing that same gentle, refined smile that Bron recognises from her childhood. 

“Kill him,” her mother says, and there’s an odd warmth in her voice, a sweetness that contradicts sharply with the cruelty of her command.

Bron startles, her eyes going wide and her mouth crinkling in confusion. _Kill_ Alistair? 

“I can’t,” she replies with a fervent shake of her head, stepping back to create some space between her and her mother, some space to think. Because it’s Alistair – _Alistair_ – and she won’t hurt him, _not him_.

“Kill him before he kills you!” her mother insists, stepping forward to place a gently urging hand on Bron’s shoulder.

Bron shakes her head again. She can’t, she can't… can she?

How else will she escape from the Fade? How else will she escape the demons?

After all, it was _Alistair_ who brought her here. Alistair tricked her! Alistair made her believe that he cared for her. He made a fool of her! He doesn’t even have the courage to kill her directly! Leading her to the demons instead. Well - _Bron_ has never lacked in courage! She will do it! She will end this – cleanly and honourably.

“Kill him,” her mother repeats, tongue rolling over the words as if revelling in every letter, “then submit yourself to me. I’ll help you escape. I’ll give you everything you want.”

Bron nods. Her mother is right. Her mother had always been right. Everything Bron knows – everything Bron _is_ – is from her mother. She trusts this woman more than anyone else in all of Thedas. If she says that Bron needs to kill Alistair – well then, Alistair must die.

Her hand falls to the rapier hanging at her hip as she looks across the mottled earth toward Alistair’s shrinking form. She’d been talking with her mother for some time and Alistair had managed to walk a fair distance away from her. It’s no matter, she’d always been fast, nimble on her feet, and she’ll soon catch him. There’s no way he’ll escape.

She takes off at a swift run, her feet dancing over the pocked surface of the ground with a speed and agility she hasn’t felt for some time. The fatigue that has plagued her since Adamant seems forgotten, the throbbing pain of her various battle injuries seems dull. There’s no feeling, no thought even. All she knows is that she _must_ kill Alistair.

Her feet accelerate as she nears him, somehow managing a final burst of speed as she pulls her rapier free from its scabbard. She unleashes a growl, angry, feral and wholly unlike her, before leaping, throwing her shoulder into Alistair’s back and sending him tumbling to the ground. 

She hadn’t expected him to fall so easily; after all, Alistair is a big, sturdy man. But then the Fade has probably taken its toll on Alistair as much as it has on her, and he never could have expected her attack. He makes little protest as he falls, only letting out the faintest of surprised _ohs_.

He lands with a thud and thrashes inelegantly for a moment before trying to right himself. But he’s too slow, and there’s only a moment before Bron is on top of him, straddling his chest and pinning him to the ground. Lightening fast, she raises her rapier and pushes the metal blade against his throat.

He wriggles for a moment, perhaps attempting to dislodge her and free himself, but she doesn’t budge, her thighs only tightening around his waist. She reacts to his vain attempt at resistance by pressing her rapier further into his neck, earning her a pained hiss in response. A rapier is designed for piercing, not slicing, but she’s pushing the blade with enough force against Alistair’s neck that the skin begins to redden and pucker, and a small rivulet of blood starts to trickle down.

“Don’t move,” she warns.

* * *

Alistair hisses as the metal bites against his skin, a firm pressure followed by a burst of sharpness as the blade cuts into flesh. He can feel the warmth of his blood as it seeps outward, charting a meandering course down his already dirt-smeared and blood-spattered neck. Oddly, it tickles, and his fingers twitch at the sudden urge to scratch.

Bron is curled above him, her face held so close to his that he can see every bead of sweat upon her brow, every throb of her pulse at her temples. He’s seen this face every day for almost seven months and yet it is suddenly foreign to him; her cheeks are grey and sunken, her mouth curled into a snarl, and her eyes no longer hold her usual good-humour, instead staring at him with a blank coldness that brings to mind the ghostly expressions of the undead he encountered so many years ago at Redcliffe. 

He could easily shift her, he thinks. Bron is remarkably strong, her muscles thick and corded from years of sword training and rock climbing, but Alistair is undoubtedly stronger. All he needs to do is throw her off, throw her off and then raise his own sword to defend himself. But her blade is still pressing urgently against his neck, and he’s not sure he can dislodge her without causing injury to one or both of them. It’s a risk, and one that he’s not willing to take.

And besides – _it’s Bron_.

She’s his companion, his friend, _maybe_ even something more. Surely Bron won’t hurt him; surely Bron won’t kill him. Not his Bron. 

But then she pushes her rapier more forcefully against his throat and he can feel the first hints of doubt begin to creep into his mind. Because – _shit_ – it really does seem like she wants to kill him.

 _Fight back_ , his instincts scream, _fight back and protect yourself_. But he won’t hurt her; he _can’t_ hurt her.

He should have known something was wrong. He should have known when she fell silent several days ago, not the normal, comfortable silence that often lay between them but something prickling and sharp and unnatural. He’d tried to talk to her, tried to figure out what was troubling her, but she’d dismissed his attempts at comfort and he’d been too tired – _too fucking tired_ – to press any further. He wishes now that he’d tried harder, wishes more than anything that he’d just _talked_ to her while he still had the chance.

Now – with her weapon to his throat and her face contorted with such rage that he barely recognises her – he supposes it’s too late to talk.

Although – it can’t hurt to try, right? 

“Bron,” he starts, the vibration of his voice causing his skin to chafe along the edge of her blade as he speaks. “Bron, it’s me, it’s Alistair.”

She responds with a wild snarl, clearly unmoved by his words. He’d hoped that the sound of his voice would be enough to snap her out of whatever force held influence over her. Instead she just leans in further, sneering and spitting savagely. It’s not a promising start.

But then – he _is still alive_. It would be _so easy_ for her to finish him off, to drag her blade along his throat and coat the ground beneath them with his blood. That she hasn’t done so _must_ be a sign, an indication that some part of the true Bron remains below this feral exterior.

He knows that the woman he loves is still somewhere inside; he knows that he can reach the true Bron. Or… well… he _hopes_ she’s still inside, and he _hopes_ he can reach her – if only he can find the words.

“It’s me, Bron,” he starts again, “and I know you don’t want to hurt me, Bron,”

“ _You’re_ trying to kill _me_!” she growls, “you’re weak and I’m strong. I’m a fortress. And you’re trying to feed me to the demons. You’re on the _side_ of the demons. You want to barter me for power. Well – I won’t let you. I’m going to kill you before you kill me!”

They’re not her words, too aimless, too gibbering, though they’re spoken with her voice. And it’s weird to hear such insanity spoken in Bron’s rich, warm tone, her time in Orlais giving her accent a strange, almost melodic lilt.

“I’m not trying to kill you, Bron, I _care_ for you, more than _anything_ ,” he insists. “Please come back to me – _please_.”

Her brows furl at his plea, maybe in disdain, maybe just confusion. But it’s the first indication he’s had that she’s actually listening, that maybe his words are having some effect.

“You don’t care – you _can’t_ care,” she says, and he wonders whether it’s just his imagination or whether her voice really is a little softer than before, a little more like Bron. “I’m meant to be alone. _I’m a fortress_.”

“You’re not meant to be alone, Bron,” he says. “You have friends, family; _you have me_. And I will always stay by your side, just as you promised to stay by mine.”

He can feel her grip falter, the pressure against his neck lessoning by a small, almost imperceptible amount. Her whole body is shaking, tiny waves of movement like the tremors of a branch just before it snaps. Whatever internal battle she’s waging, it looks like she’s only just managing to keep herself together.

“You _can’t_ care. No one – no one…” she mutters. A solitary tear slips down her cheek and he wants so desperately to reach out and brush it aside. But he still daren’t move.

“I _do_ care, you have to believe me. I-I-” he lets his words trail off, careful not to admit something before he’s ready. But then he sees Bron’s pained face hovering above his own, feels the light patter of water drops as her tears fall onto his upturned cheeks, and he so _urgently_ wants her back.

Cautiously, he whispers, “ _I love you_.”

It’s not exactly how he’d intended to make such a confession. Not that he’d really had a particular plan in mind. But don’t these sorts of declarations usually require violin music or flowers or _something_? Shouldn’t he be in a moonlit garden right now, rather than the gloomy wasteland of the Fade? He’s pretty sure declarations of love aren’t accompanied by the insistent press of a blade to the throat.

He can’t tell whether she'd heard his words; there’s no flicker of recognition in her eyes, no sign of any feeling at all, just that eerily blank, dull stare. But her hands are trembling, the blade no longer held tight to his throat but rattling uselessly in her white-knuckled grip.

Suddenly the weapon is cast aside with a tinkling clang and Bron throws herself back, her feet scrambling to get purchase as she crawls away from him across the ground. Her hands come to her face, clawing at her face for one feverish moment before she suddenly folds in on herself, head bowed and body shaking.

He has to fight the urge to rush to her side and envelope her in his arms. He just wants to hold her, to comfort her, to reassure himself that she’s _real_ and she’s _here_ and she’s finally back to normal. But she looks so fragile, so broken, and he doesn’t want to startle her. It had taken so many months of companionship for her to finally open up to him; he doesn’t want to ruin that all now by crowding her after such a clearly traumatic experience.

Instead he picks himself up from the ground, walks slowly to where she sits huddled and wretched, then carefully drops to his knees in front of her. Once settled, he raises his hands to gently pry hers away from her face then squeezes them tightly in what he hopes is a reassuring gesture. He’s encouraged when she doesn’t immediately snatch them back.

“Bron?” he asks gingerly, not daring to say anything else though his mind is thrumming with questions.

“What have I done?” she whispers, barely audible. “What have I _done_?”

“Nothing,” he insists, squeezing her hands even harder. It’s may be a little too hard, though he’s wary not to hurt her, but he just wants to _make_ _sure_ that she can feel him. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

Her head snaps up at his words, glaring at him pointedly. “ _Nothing_? I-I… I _hurt_ you,” she cries, then opens her mouth as if to speak again only for her body to be wracked with a sob of grief so strong that her whole frame shakes.

“It’s only a _scratch_ ,” he says, his voice pitched light and teasing in an attempt at humour. It doesn’t work as intended, just wrenching forth another shuddering sob.

Right, he thinks, maybe _don’t_ try to be funny.

Humour has always been his fallback position, though, his instinctual response when faced with difficult or upsetting situations. It’s a bad habit; one he needs to put aside for now if he’s going to be of any genuine comfort to Bron.

“Do you want to talk about what happened?” he asks, leaning forward encouragingly.

“No,” she responds curtly, like a petulant child being reprimanded, and Alistair almost finds himself smiling.

He bends closer to press a gentle kiss to her forehead then stays, hovering so near that he can feel the air vibrate around her with each wracking sob. He’s still holding her hands, only now he’s drawing small circles around her knuckles with the pads of his fingers.

“Are you _sure_ you don’t want to talk about it?” he prods again.

He wouldn’t normally push her like. Normally he would let Bron keep her silence until she’s ready to talk (and she _did_ always talk to him, eventually). But normal was lost a long time ago – the moment they stepped into the Fade, the moment they faced the Nightmare, the moment Bron launched at him with a snarling attack - and he needs her to open up to him if he’s going to help her. He prays that she understands, that she doesn’t simply retreat further in response to his insistence. 

“It was my mother,” she says, and Alistair is pleasantly surprised that she answered, though deeply troubled by her words. Her mother is dead, he’s certain of it, and the implications of Bron’s confession are, well… _unsettling_.

“Your… mother?” Alistair queries, just to make sure he heard her right.

“Yes – she was here,” Bron explains, “she… she has been for some time. She’s been following me, talking to me. For days now.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t know what you would think –,” she pauses, looking sheepish. “I didn’t want you to think I was crazy. And I suppose… I suppose I was too proud. I didn’t want to admit that the Fade was affecting me.”

He nods in understanding. The Fade has a nasty habit of making one appear foolish, of pulling out one’s fears and desires and insecurities and putting them on embarrassing display. He’d experienced it once, during the Blight, when the demons had shown him a glimpse of a family he’d long dreamed for, then shown him what a fool he was for believing the lie. He’d felt so utterly ashamed when Elissa had finally wrenched him free of his illusion, exposed and naive and thoroughly mortified. 

“It was probably a demon,” he says, trying to forget about his unfortunate past and focus instead on alleviating Bron’s current distress. “It probably used your memories, took on your mother’s form to manipulate you.”

“A demon…” she says dully, “probably.”

There’s a pause. He can see Bron thinking, the knot in her brows, the slight purse to her lips, and he waits patiently for whatever she has to say next.

She was-“ Bron stops, searching for the right words, “kinder than I remember, but also crueler. She said things… things that I had long wished for her to say but knew she never would. Now that I think back – I can’t believe I really thought it was my mother.” 

“Demons are smart.”

“I should have been smarter,” she quickly retorts, a flash of fury in her eyes but more sorrow than anger in her voice. “I should have seen through the trick. I should have been stronger. I should have-“ her words are swallowed by another fit of sobs, more tears searing a course down her already blotched face.

This time Alistair does wrap his arms around her, pulling her toward him until she’s pressed tight against his chest, her head tucked neatly beneath his chin. It’s not the most comfortable of embraces, sitting on the hard, rocky ground, their legs bent awkwardly beneath them, but he has Bron ( _his_ Bron) back again and his discomfort seems only a distant concern as long as she is with him.

“She told me that you were tricking me,” she murmurs against his chest, so faint he only just hears her. He hmms in acknowledgement, uncertain what to say, but it’s enough to spur her to continue. “I thought… I thought that you didn’t care for me. That you were lying to me so I would follow you to the Fade, to the demons. I thought it was all just some elaborate hoax.” 

Alistair tenses as she speaks, and while he knows he shouldn’t judge her for things she thought while under the influence of a demon, he can’t help but feel a little hurt. Did she truly doubt the veracity of his feelings for her?

“You don’t… you don’t really think that, right?” he asks, and feels rude for doing so. “You don’t really doubt my feelings for you.”

She shakes her head. He can’t see the gesture with her head nestled below his, but he can feel the motion against his chest.

“I don’t doubt them… although…” she lets her words trail off, suddenly turning uncharacteristically shy, “I am surprised by them,”

Alistair’s face contorts in confusion; he’s not really sure what she could mean by that. “Why surprised?” he asks, leaning back so that he can read her expression when she responds.

She shrugs awkwardly, struggling to move in Alistair’s crushing embrace. “Because… because you’re warm and kind and I’m… _not_.”

He snorts derisively, utterly baffled that she could say something so preposterous. “You _are_ warm and kind,” he says, “you just express it differently from other people! There’s nothing wrong with being quiet; there’s nothing wrong with liking your distance! You’re thoughtful and you’re… you’re selfless. You put the comfort of others before your own and you… you’ve made me a better person. Truly, you have.”

For the first time in far too long, Bron smiles.

And it is the most beautiful thing Alistair has even seen.

It’s only small, a little lopsided, but it’s most definitely there, a gentle curve just curled enough to form creases at the corner of her lips. He’s missed that smile, _so fucking much_ , and it’s a great relief to finally see it once more. He hopes that it will never again disappear for such an alarming length of time. 

“You say nice things,” she says, a little dopily, like a child left dozy after too much sugar. “Thank you.”

She finally seems at ease, the last vestiges of the demon’s effects slowly evaporating from her body and mind. Nodding lazily, she curls in closer in his embrace. Her breathing has settled, the sobs replaced with an almost contented sigh.

For a long time he just holds her, enjoying the sound of her steady breathing, the feel of her breath gently tickling against the red rawness of his neck.

“I’m sorry I tried to kill you,” she murmurs against his chest, finally breaking the quiet.

He chuckles softly. “Just… don’t do it again,” he says teasingly.

A puff of air ruffles his shirt as she lets out her own quiet chuckle. “I can’t make any promises – you can be awfully trying sometimes. You talk too much.”

His chuckles turn to full-throated laughter then, more from relief than genuine amusement at her rather sedate attempt at wit. But there’s a great wash of release, a wave of satisfaction that comes from the realisation that he has his Bron back. _His_ Bron – with her dry humour and her wry smiles, with her sharp words and her thoughtful quiet.

With Bron tightly ensconced in his arms, Alistair isn’t thinking about demons masquerading as mothers, or the memory of Bron’s rapier against his throat, or the drudgery of the Fade, or the improbability of their escape; all he’s thinking about is that she’s _safe_. Bron is safe, and he’s going to do everything in his power to ensure that she stays as such.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	17. Firsts and Lasts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair and Bron partake of some friendly chit-chat and then things go hideously awry.

Alistair’s hand is warm. Warm and strong, and only slightly sticky where his palm is pressed tightly against hers. His fingers are threaded between her own, like an anchor, holding her immovable against the tides.

Occasionally he’ll give her hand a gentle squeeze, _are you still with me?_

She gives him a gentle squeeze back, _always_.

They’ve been walking hand-in-hand for some time. Since the demon wearing Bron’s mother’s face, since Bron held her rapier to Alistair’s neck and threatened him with death. It’s easier like this – their hands entwined. Bron doesn’t feel so alone, so exposed, when she can feel Alistair’s warmth seeping into her skin.

She’s still tired, of course, utterly exhausted. The pounding in her head is back, and the twinge in her ankle refuses to be ignored. And when they’re forced to stop and rest (which is relatively often considering their sorry state), Bron can see how the Fade is taking its toll on Alistair as well, the beads of sweat that cling persistently to his brow, the dark shadows that give a strange hollowness to his eyes.

But they’ve made the tacit agreement not to shut each other out, to communicate and share their burdens as much as possible. Bron’s not really sure how it happened but for the first time since they’d met, all those many months ago, they are simply _talking_. From silly anecdotes to peculiar musings, frivolities and fancies, they fight against the eerie, stiff silence of the Fade with amicable chatter.

“I was thirteen,” Alistair says, sounding endearingly bashful as he speaks, “she was a chantry initiate. We hid behind the buttery so the Sisters wouldn’t see us. It was awkward and… _wet_. I remember I couldn’t figure out what I was supposed to do with my hands.”

Bron chuckles softly as he talks, just enjoying the sound of his voice, the easy patter of his words. She normally hates small-talk and idle chit-chat – Bron has never understood the point in talking just for the sake of talking. But she finds that she doesn’t mind this. She’s actually enjoying it. Listening to Alistair’s stories, learning of his childhood, his time with the Chantry and the wardens. It’s like opening a window into the past, seeing the little boy that would grow up to be the man she now so keenly admires.

“All right,” he says, nudging her shoulder with his own, “same question to you.”

Bron takes a deep breath then lets out a somewhat wearied sigh. That’s the unfortunate downside – she’s happy to let Alistair tell her tales of his past but she’s not as good at reciprocating. Bron doesn’t like to talk about herself, doesn’t like to expose herself to other people. And normally she would keep quiet – she’s always been good at learning other people’s secrets, squirrelling them away for future use, without actually revealing anything about herself. But it doesn’t seem right this time – to listen to Alistair without sharing in kind. It doesn’t seem fair.

And so she talks – and it feels _strange_ … being this forthcoming with another person. But something about it feels _right_ as well. 

“I’d just arrived in Orlais with Leliana,” she begins, “It was at my first fancy ball. You know, big dresses, even bigger hats – that sort of thing. And this man started talking to me, telling me all these ridiculous things about how… _my eyes shone like diamonds_ , and _my smile was like a gift from the Maker_. My Orlesian still wasn’t that good but I thought… I don’t know… it seemed romantic at the time. He led me to this balcony that overlooked these gardens and then he… he kissed me. It felt… _thrilling_ , I guess, and…” 

“All right,” Alistair interrupts with another bump against her shoulder, “I think I get the general idea…”

“You _did_ ask!” she points out in response to his obvious discomfort, giggling with easy amusement.

“Yes! Because I thought it would be awkward and embarrassing like mine!” he exclaims, “I didn’t realise there would be romantic balconies and charming Orlesians involved!”

She laughs at that, full and rich and only slightly hoarse from a throat too parched from dehydration.

“Are you jealous?” she asks with a wag of her eyebrow.

“Yes – immensely.”

She laughs again, a little softer this time, until the laughter fades into a crooked, ever so slightly sad smile. “Don’t be – he turned out to be an arsehole. I found him again later in the evening on the same balcony with a different woman. Apparently _her_ eyes shone like diamonds as well.” 

“Oh _shit_ , I’m sorry,” Alistair says earnestly, “that must have been pretty upsetting for you.”

“Not really,” she says with a shrug, “it’s not like we’d made any kind of commitment to one another. It was just a kiss. And I’d enjoyed it so… no harm, no foul I suppose.”

“Still,” Alistair continues, and he’s frowning – a deep furrow creasing the space between his brows – clearly displeased with the idea that someone had been audacious enough to toy with Bron’s emotions. “He’s clearly an idiot. To chase after someone else – to miss out on the chance to get to know you.”

“Clearly an idiot,” she echoes with a playful smirk, only a touch of sarcasm in her tone. Because she can’t quite seem to muster the same censure as Alistair can for the man who gave her that first kiss. He had made her no promises, and she’d held no expectations. After all, a man can’t really fall in love so fast (no matter how elaborate his compliments).

“All right – how about an easier question this time?” Alistair asks cheerfully, clearly eager to change the subject, “what’s the best flavour of pastry?”

“Rosewater,” Bron replies without pause, nodding decidedly.

“What?” Alistair chirrups in disbelief, “That’s utter nonsense. _Obviously_ cheese is the best pastry flavour.” 

“Cheese?!” Bron responds with her own outburst of disbelief, “pfft! Give me a rosewater éclair with a strawberry crème pâtissière filling any day. It’s light and fruity and… just _glorious_.”

“Ugh – you’re so _Orlesian_ ,” Alistair retorts, and though she can’t see it, Bron’s sure that he’s rolling his eyes at her. 

As a child, Bron probably would have agreed with him. Both of Bron’s parents had held deeply disparaging view of the Orlesians. Too fancy, too fiddly. They glorified appearance over substance, frippery over vigor. They delighted in show and subterfuge at the expense of hard work and grit. In contrast to the flighty flimsiness of Orlais, her parents were deeply proud to be of sturdy Ferelden stock. Bron had therefore accompanied Leliana to Orlais certain that she would despise everything she encountered and would be validated in her belief that Ferelden was vastly superior. 

Unfortunately, Bron had found herself _rather fond_ of Orlais.

Yes, Orlais is silly. The hats are ridiculous, as are the feathered headdresses and the bejewelled masks, the tiny cakes and the too-sweet tea, the overly ornate buildings, and the dogs too small and whiny to be of any practical purpose. Almost everything in Orlais is utterly ridiculous but also… _intriguing_ , in it’s own way. Because while Orlais _appears_ to be a chaotic panoply of decadence and excess, it is in reality governed by a very strict hierarchy of rules. The gaiety of the Orlesian aesthetic is just a cover hiding the uncompromising rules and ordered structure more commonly referred to as _The Game_ and Bron, as an outsider and habitual observer, had quickly come to understand those rules and, in time, exploit them to her own advantage.

Much to Bron’s surprise (and Leliana’s delight) Bron had been _good_ at Orlais.

And so Orlais had come to seem less like the enemy and more like home. Of course she still thought it immensely silly. Bron was still, at heart, the eternal pragmatist. But she had found in time that she could still _enjoy_ the artifice of Orlais, it’s rosewater pastries and silly hats, while still remaining deeply critical of it.

She doesn’t try to explain any of this to Alistair, though. She’s not sure he would understand her. Her father certainly hadn’t. He himself had spent many years in Orlais as a young man, perfecting his craft as a weapon-smith, and had returned to his home in Fereldan with a newfound certainty of his homeland’s vast superiority and a determination never to step foot in Orlais again. He had been deeply reluctant to let Bron go and was happy to repeat this disapproval every time she visited (which is perhaps why she keeps her visits home to a bare minimum).  

And if her father had been deeply disapproving, she had not dared to think of what her mother would have said. The day she’d decided to leave Highever and follow Leliana to Orlais had been the first (and perhaps only) time she’d been glad that her mother was dead. Because, _oh_ , how vehemently her mother would have condemned her decision. She wouldn’t have yelled (Margreth never yelled) but she would have gone quiet and stony and silently seethed with fury until Bron relented and vowed to stay home forever.

The thought of her mother causes Bron to look over her shoulder. Through the misty tendrils curling around the Fade’s jagged landscape, Bron can just make out the spectral copy of her mother, still following behind them at a distance. Bron can see her – skulking in the shadows (and Margreth _never_ skulked), watching with beady, hungry eyes. She hasn’t tried speaking to Bron in some time, not since Alistair talked her out of killing him – but she’s _there_ , and Bron can _feel_ her eyes on her back.

Alistair gives her hand a squeeze, _are you still with me?_

She squeezes back, _always_.

“Is she still following us?” he asks, concern lacing his voice as he too turns to see if he can spot the demon.

“Yes,” she replies icily, not only angry that the demon is still following her but that the demon is still daring to wear her beloved mother’s face. Somehow, it seems profoundly disrespectful – to take her mother’s proud baring, her noble features, and wear them like a mask; a wicked mockery of a great woman’s memory.

“Has she tried talking to you again?”

“No – she remains, _mercifully_ , silent.”

The quiet is a relief at least because it means that maybe, _just maybe_ , Bron can try to forget what happened, what she nearly did. It’s hard though. Her stupidity, _her weakness_ , nearly cost Alistair his life. She’d fallen for the manipulations of a demon and, as a result, nearly destroyed something deeply precious. Stupid, _stupid_.

She’s angry with herself for having believed the demon’s lies, yes, but she’s also embarrassed, _no_ – utterly _mortified_ – that she could have been tricked in such a way. She should have been smarter.

How can the Fade affect her so profoundly – leave her raw and vulnerable and foolish – while Alistair seems relatively unscathed?

“I don’t understand,” she finally says after a long pause of thoughtful silence, “why do the demons taunt me and not you?”

“Oh – they do,” he says with unnerving brightness, “they most certainly do.” He nods briskly, an odd, resigned smile tugging at his lips.

“They do?! You see the demons as well?!” Bron exclaims, and she curses herself for sounding so happy about it. That Alistair is similarly plagued with demons should not be a relief to her and yet – _it is_. Because if the demons are taunting Alistair too, well, at least it’s not just her.

“Oh absolutely – they’ve been talking to me for some time. Honestly, it’s getting a little annoying. They won’t shut up,” he gives a playful, slightly exaggerated shrug, “I now understand how you’ve felt, having to put up with my non-stop chatter over all these months.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?!” she snaps, ignoring his attempt at a joke and feeling immensely irritated that he’d kept such an important piece of information a secret from her.

“Why didn’t _you_?” he replies calmly.

Ah – _bugger_ – he has a point there.

Well… she’d kept her silence because she hadn’t wanted him to think her crazy. She hadn’t wanted him to think less of her. Her pride had prevented any attempt at honesty, any consideration of seeking help. She supposes she shouldn’t be surprised that Alistair feels the same way – wanting to put on his best front for her.

“Fair enough,” she concedes with a slow nod, then adds, “but how have you resisted them?”

“With great difficulty,” he admits, and Bron gives a sharp hum to show that she considers this answer insufficient. After a resigned sigh he continues, clearly reluctant to divulge anything further, “I’ve been in here before. Not _physically_ , of course, but I’ve been in the Fade before, during the Blight. And I was tempted by demons and I… succumbed to their visions and it was… _humiliating_. I felt like a total pillock when I realised what I’d done. I know from experience that the demons’ promises are merely empty lies – and it's that experience that has helped me resist them this time.”

She nods in understanding, then lets silence fall over them as she thinks about what he just said and, perhaps, what she can do now to help him.

“Who do you see?” she asks after a long pause. She’s really just being nosy now – but she can’t help feeling curious.

He lets out a breath – a long wisp of air that pushes between pursed lips as he considers his response. She half expects him to brush off the question; she wouldn’t think poorly of him if he did. She’d asked an invasive question and it’s well within his rights to tell her to sod off.

“At first it was my uncle, Arl Eamon, telling me that he was sorry for sending me away and asking me to come back to Redcliffe. It was touching, I suppose, although it’s a little late now,” he responds matter-of-factly, “but Eamon seems to have wondered off now and instead… well… now it’s Elissa.”

“The Hero of Ferelden?” Bron asks, her curiosity piqued even more.

“That’s her – although – she’s not the Hero of Ferelden. The way I remember her, she’s just Elissa.”

Elissa, huh? Bron finds this rather intriguing. She’s always had a fascination with the Hero of Fereldan. And she’s wanted to ask him about her so many times – whether the stories about her are accurate or mere exaggeration, whether she’s as steely as people describe her, whether her skill with a blade is truly unmatched. She’s heard so many stories (mainly from Leliana, whose penchant for exaggeration and romanticism is well-known) that she can’t help but be curious as to whether they are true.

Unfortunately Alistair doesn’t talk about her often, and when he does it’s mainly to express his bitterness at having been exiled. And so Bron keeps her questions to herself, deciding that Alistair doesn’t want to talk about Elissa and Bron doesn’t _really_ need to know. 

But there’s not just bitterness – there’s something else in his tone. A longing, perhaps? He’s not just angry about his exile – there’s something more there, a deeper betrayal, a hurt that can only come from being deceived by someone you _really care about_. And Bron doesn’t want to intrude on anything more intimate, more personal. Well… maybe she wants to intrude _just a little_. Over time she has become increasingly convinced that there was something between Alistair and Elissa – and her own growing feelings for Alistair have just made her _more_ keen to find out what.

She _knows_ she shouldn’t ask; she _knows_ she shouldn’t impose on his privacy. But then Bron has never been satisfied with unanswered questions.

“You were… very _fond_ of her,” Bron begins cautiously, “Elissa, I mean. She wasn’t just your fellow warden. There was something between you two.”

She can feel his body stiffen beside her, his fingers clenching hers in an almost uncomfortable grip. But then the moment passes, and his limbs slacken, and when Bron cranes her neck to watch his expression, she can see the tension sliding away to leave a rueful, strangely nostalgic smile in place.

“Yes – I… _cared_ for her a great deal,” he replies truthfully, and there’s a sense of release as he talks, like a confession, unburdening the soul, “she was strong, and smart, and determined. I’d never met anyone like her and I was… enthralled. She was the first person I’d ever really…”

He trails off then, staring across the horizon of the Fade as if lost. There’s a glazed look to his eyes, soft and heady, as if captivated by a fond memory. Bron’s beginning to wish she hadn’t asked; maybe she doesn’t really want to know about the depth of his feelings for another woman.

“I was so furious when I was exiled,” he continues once his eyes have snapped into focus once more, “I blamed her, of course. For refusing to kill Loghain, for siding with Anora. I thought… I don’t know what I thought. I told her that she’d betrayed the Order but I was more upset that she’d betrayed me. I’d always assumed she’d take my side.”

He pauses and Bron’s not sure whether she’s supposed to respond or whether he’s still not finished speaking. She opts for silence, deciding to let Alistair work out his thoughts before saying anything.

“Back at Skyhold, Leliana said that Elissa saved my life. That Anora wanted to execute me as a potential threat to her rule and that Elissa persuaded her to exile me instead. I guess… I guess that makes sense. Elissa probably did save my life; Leliana is probably right.”

“She usually is,” Bron comments and is relieved when Alistair chuckles softly in response.

“I guess I’m not really angry with her anymore. I mean – the anger’s still there, if I think about it. But it doesn’t seem so… urgent any more. And it’s hard to begrudge Elissa for what she did because… well… if I’d never been exiled, I would probably be dead by now. Killed by the Archdemon in Loghain’s place. Or enslaved to Corypheus. Sacrificed for the sake of his demon army.”

It pains her to admit it but she’s had similar thoughts. Ever since they’d come across the ritual tower in the Western Approach, ever since she’d seen the pools of blood and the dead-eyed stares of the sacrificed Wardens, she’s been unable to stop imagining Alistair meeting the same unfortunate end. The same grotesque image has been haunting her darkest dreams – Alistair’s face, pale and drawn, staring up at her from among the twisted pile of wasted Wardens.

“I think that… ” she stops, considers her words, starts again. “If you’d stayed in the Order… you would have spoken out against all of this,” she says. “You would have seen through Erimond’s lies; you would have fought against Corypheus. I’m sure of it.”

“You have a lot of faith in me,” Alistair comments with an awkward, stuttering snicker. He raises his free hand to rake clumsily at his hair, a nervous gesture which suggests he doesn’t quite share her conviction.

“My faith is not unfounded,” she replies.

At that he turns to look at her fully, looking momentarily startled before his face falls into something softer, more tender. There’s a subtle curve to his lips, an amused quirk to his brow, but Bron can’t tear her gaze away from his eyes and the sheer affection she can see displayed there. It’s a little overwhelming, to be honest, the warmth that Alistair seems to convey with such a simple look and Bron finds herself ducking her head.

She bumps her forehead into his shoulder, _don’t look at me like that_.

He leans down to press a quick kiss to the crown of her head, _just try and stop me_.

“And besides – if I’d never been exiled, I never would have met you!” he exclaims cheerily.

“Well that _would_ have been a terrible shame. I am, after all, pretty spectacular,” she says in a teasing tone, lifting her smile up into a crooked smirk.

“Yes,” he says, “you are.” And he’s giving her _that look_ again and Bron can feel her cheeks flush with a rosy heat that is just thoroughly embarrassing.

She turns away, looking out over their surroundings, pretending to be _deeply_ fascinated by the topography of the Fade, in the hope that Alistair will not notice her embarrassment (although she can tell from his shit-eating grin that he’s seen her blush and is heartily amused by it).

“Bron, I-” Alistair begins, and Bron is almost relieved when a demon’s piercing shriek stops him from speaking further. Her cheeks are already burning and she’s not sure she can take much more of his earnestness. 

A small crest lies before them, a spiked mound of earth that cuts through the swirling mists before falling away into a murky nothingness. From beyond the crest comes the sound of snarling and snapping, a small congregation of demons from what Bron can tell.

She’s sure that they haven’t been spotted – there’s no chorus of screeches, no thunder of charging bodies – which means there’s still a chance for them to run away should they wish. But then they _are_ looking for a rift into the real world. And finding rifts means finding demons. And as much as Bron loathes admitting it given her current state of exhaustion, they need to take a closer look. From Alistair’s stony expression, he has come to the same conclusion.

Cautiously, Alistair and Bron clamber up the side of the mound, peering through the jagged spikes of rock to look down the other side. It’s hard to tell through the swirling mists of the Fade but Bron can just about make out a dozen writhing forms in a small gully at the bottom of the slope. There are a number of Minor Terrors, small and relatively easy to deal with. But there are a few larger demons amongst their midst as well, a Despair Demon and a few Rage Demons as well.

It’s not a tempting sight and Bron would love more than anything to just signal a retreat.

But then she spots something; a subtle glimmer of shifting light amongst the mist. It would have been easy to miss, the Fade is full of shimmering curtains and shafts of light that dance unnaturally in the still air, but this light has a familiar greenish hue and Bron can feel an odd prickling sensation along her skin.

This is what it felt like back at Adamant, when Eleri had used the Anchor and pulled them into the Fade. It’s a sharp tickling, an almost burning sensation that makes all the hairs on her skin stand up.

“Is that a rift?” Alistair asks, more excited than she’s heard him in a long while (though with an unmistakable undercurrent of wariness).

“I think so,” Bron replies, a little more snappish than intended, frustrated by her ignorance and anxious at the prospect of battle. “Well,” she says as she pulls her rapier from its sheath in readiness, smiling with a feigned confidence she does not feel, “there’s only one way to find out. Shall we take a look?”

Alistair smiles in return, and if he sees through her charade of self-assurance he does not show it. “Sure, let’s… _take a look_.”

Slowly, carefully, they climb over the rocky outcropping until they find themselves at the top of a steep slope that leads down toward the demons and, they hope, a rift to freedom. Gingerly, they step down the slope until they’re closer to their targets, then, after a brief tactical discussion told more through gestures than words, they separate, both heading to opposite ends of the group in the hope of routing the demons.

Bron can only just make out Alistair through the mists and the fog and it makes her nervous, being separated from him. It’s only the two of them against a significantly larger force of demons. And they’re tired and hungry and suffering from far more injuries than either cares to admit. Neither of them are wearing armour; he’d shucked his when running from the Nightmare and Bron had ditched hers shortly after (too drenched in blood and gore to be salvageable). They hadn’t needed much protection when facing the few solitary demons they’d encountered across the Fade so far, their tunics and trousers had been sufficient, but this… this is different… this is practically a horde.

Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to separate after all – maybe they’d be stronger if they stuck together.

It’s too late now, though. They’re both in position and Bron can see Alistair gesturing to attack.

_Oh Maker, here goes everything_.

Bron somersaults from her vantage point, landing with a delicate thud on the back of an unsuspecting demon. She drives her rapier down into its head and rides the thrashing monster as it staggers a few steps before crumpling to the ground with a hollow wail. Once the demon is down, Bron immediately springs to her feet, not wanting to waste a single moment and painfully aware that her dwindling reserves of energy will not sustain her for long. She rams her shoulder into a nearby Minor Terror, hooks the tip of her blade beneath its chin, then pulls forward with such force that she can feel its jaw crack loose accompanied by a morbidly satisfying crunch. She ducks as a fizzling ball of magic rips through the air above her, then drives her dagger into a flaming mass of Rage Demon before reeling upwards and jabbing her weapon into an exposed neck. 

Her fighting is more chaotic than usual. Amongst the melee of flailing, writhing demons, she’s finding it hard to separate one monster from the next. And she’s tired – _so fucking tired_ – that she can’t muster the strength to keep track of every demon as it charges around the battlefield, can’t prioritise her targets or determine the most efficient way of dispatching them. All she can do it stab and pierce, duck and spin, just keep moving and killing and hope that the demons die before she does.

She lunges at a demon, spinning below its outstretched arms before raising her rapier and piercing the juncture between shoulder and neck, forcing the weapon deep and twisting as she does to maximise the damage. When the demon goes limp, she pulls her rapier free and turns to face her next opponent. She’s met with a vicious strike, a back-hand from a demon’s massive paws, and she’s sent sprawling to the ground, her cheek stinging sharply. The creature looms above her and Bron reacts more out of instinct than thought, surging upright and piercing her dagger into flesh just below the creature’s sternum. She rolls out of the way as the demon falls to the gore-slicked earth and staggers to her feet wearily. 

That was _too close_.

She makes to lurch at another demon when something kicks her in the shin and she cries out in surprise, her sword going wide of its mark as her body spasms from the pain. She turns clumsily in search of her attacker but the field is too crowded, the demons swarming around her, and she can’t make out one demon from the next. She raises her rapier defensively when suddenly there’s a shing, and a rip, and a blinding pain like nothing Bron has ever felt before.

It’s like an explosion, a web of fire that lances through her limbs, coursing under the skin and igniting every nerve ending until she’s gasping with the agony of it all. Bron looks down to see a spiked claw protruding from her stomach and a blossoming redness across her shirt.

_Oh Fuck_.

She screams, shrill and piercing, and the sound of it surprises her. She’d never thought she was much of a screamer but then she’d never been stabbed before either. The pain is worse than anything she could have imagined, sharp and fierce, like she’s being ripped apart from the inside.

Bron falls to her knees, eyes wide with shock and startling pain, and her legs tremble with the impact as they hit the hard ground. She doesn’t feel the fall though, barely feels anything over the throbbing in her stomach that blacks out all other senses.

She’s dimly aware of the demons crowding around her, their dark and twisted forms dancing in the hazy mists of the Fade. And then their forms become unclear, blurred by the tears that are filling her eyes before, finally, they are lost to darkness as Bron’s eyes fall shut and her body pitches to the floor.

* * *

Alistair is fighting a Despair Demon when he hears the scream.

He raises his shield to block an attack, the sizzling magic clanking against the metal with a fizzling shing that dissipates into wispy sparks, and for a moment he thinks it’s just the demon wailing. But then he slashes his longsword against the demon’s throat and even after it disintegrates into ash, he can still hear the agonised scream.

It’s not the demon screaming – it’s Bron.

And his heart seems to both race and stop completely at the same time.

_It’s Bron_.

The wail is almost feral, pained and desperate, only growing in anguish as the sound echoes across the battlefield – _Oh Maker, Bron_.

He didn’t think anything could be worse than the sound of her screaming but then the screaming stops and somehow that feels even worse. Because if she’s fallen silent then that means – _no_ , he can’t let himself think that way.

He turns his head to survey the battlefield but she’s nowhere to be seen, just the lumbering bodies of the demons crowding around him. He needs to find her, needs to go to her, but it’s impossible to pick her out among the jostling limbs and the ashen piles of the dead.

_Where the fuck is she?_

He needs to end this, needs to be rid of these demons once and for all so that he can find Bron before it’s too late ( _please, Maker, don’t let it be too late_ ). Racing forward, he tears his sword across the snarling face of one demon, then plunges it into the writhing molten body of another. He stabs one demon, pivots, then stabs another, and another, racing across the field with little thought or design. Fueled by a desperate frenzy, and against the protests of every muscle in his body, Alistair unleashes his anger and frustration upon the remaining demons, slashing and thrusting until only a mass of black, broken limbs lies beneath him.

At last an uneasy quiet falls upon the battlefield, resting uncomfortably on the twisted remains of the fallen demons. And yet there’s still no sign of Bron. No dark eyes looking at him with wearied amusement. No gentle smile twisting into a smug smirk at the sight of his panic. No teasing quip, _you weren’t worried were you?_

Suddenly he sees something shift among the mangled corpses and ashy piles of the dead. His first instinct is to raise his sword but then he sees it, a freckled cheek hidden under a cloak of matted black. Bron’s habitual braid has come lose, her curtain of long dark hair hiding her face and obscuring her from sight. 

He sheathes his sword as he surges across the battlefield, scrambling frantically over bodies and rocks before falling to his knees and skidding to a rest next to Bron’s prone form.

One hand brushes the hair from her face while the other seeks out a pulse at her neck. It’s there – thready and soft but definitely there. _Thank the Maker!_

He carefully lifts her from the gore-smudged earth, cradling her within the circle of his arms. There’s a stab of panic as he feels a sickening warmth spreading along her back, her blood seeping through her shirt and onto his skin. She looks up at him with unfocused eyes, the hilt of her rapier dropping to the ground with a soft clink as her senseless, shaking fingers claw pointlessly at the ground. Her mouth opens and closes as if trying to speak but no sound comes out other than a wheeze followed by a strangled gurgle. It’s a disgusting sound, a dying sound. 

He wants to be sick.

“Bron?” he cries, and his voice sounds alien to him, small and lost and rough, “Bron, it’s me, it’s Alistair. I’m begging you… please, _please_.”

He’s not sure what he’s begging for – please speak? Please live? _Please don’t leave me_.

Finally, her eyes become focused and she holds his gaze steadily, almost determinedly. With more strength than she can spare, she rasps, “ _bloody hell_ , you look awful.”

He laughs, though there’s no humour there. It comes off almost hysterical.

“You don’t look too great yourself,” he quips back and he’s not sure whether she’s trying to smile in response or whether she’s just grimacing in pain.

“The rift…” she starts, then stops as a heaving spasm wracks through her body and her limbs seize in agony.

He pulls her closer, tucking her neatly against his chest and resting her head in the crook of his neck. One hand comes to cup her cheek, and a finger strokes gently along her freckles, smearing her tears to make a clean crescent shape across her dirt-encrusted skin.

“You have to get through the rift,” she finally finishes once the tremors of pain have subsided.

_The rift?_ he thinks, suddenly angry. _Who gives a flying fuck about rifts when Bron is bleeding out in his arms?!_

“I’m not leaving you here,” he says, urgently, insistently.

“You fool,” she says with a strange fondness, then repeats, “you _have_ to get through the rift.” Even in her weakened state, it’s amazing how much ferocity she can put into her voice.

“I’m not leaving you here,” he says again, and he can feel the scouring warmth of his tears as they chart a course down his cheeks and land on Bron’s crown. It hurts, crying, each tear like a knife etching hot lines down his skin. But that pain is nothing to the pain he can feel in his chest, a tight, twisting sensation, like a claw tearing at him from the inside.

“You stubborn ass,” she somehow manages between stiff lips, “just… _go_.”

And then she goes still, her limbs falling slack in his grip and her eyes rolling back in her head. There’s an eerie stillness, no noise across the Fade except the dull sound of his own ragged breathing.

The silence is suddenly shattered when a sob is ripped from his throat, a keening wail more animal than man. It fills the air, fierce and sorrowful, reverberating between the mighty rock structures that surround him until the very Fade seems to thrum with misery.

She wasn’t even supposed to be here! He was the one who was supposed to sacrifice himself in the Fade!

If only she hadn't followed him; if only she hadn't tried to save him from the Nightmare.

_This is not how it was supposed to end_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	18. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair is reunited with the Inquisition.
> 
> And we have a new POV character! What fun!

A bird dashes from a nearby bush, unleashing a high-pitch squaw as it flies between the boughs of a towering oak and sweeps across the grey skies stretching overhead. Harding instinctively moves one hand toward the dagger at her waist then stops, her fingers hovering for a moment just above the hilt. She _waits_ , watching until the bird disappears from view, hidden by the thick canopy of branches that tangle above.

Was it just the scouting party that startled the bird into flight? Or perhaps something more sinister, lurking amongst the undergrowth? She listens, her body held tense and alert, for a sign of impending attack. Instead she hears only the soft susurrus of the wind as it meanders lazily between the tree trunks, the gentle patter of the naked branches as they knock into each other. Content that no threat approaches, she lets the tension drain from her limbs, lets her hand fall away from her dagger, hooking her fingers casually into her belt instead.

 _False alarm. No danger_. 

“It’s just a bird,” says a voice from over her shoulder and Harding doesn’t need to turn her head to know that it’s Steve. Ugh – _Steve_.

Steve is a _chatterer_ and over the last few weeks Harding has become intimately (far, _far_ too intimately) acquainted with his voice.

“Yes, I can see,” she replies flatly, not wanting to encourage conversation (not that he needs the encouragement) but not wanting to appear rude either.

“A bird won’t attack you,” he continues, “at least I don’t _think_ it will.”

Harding only hums in acknowledgment.

“I saw a bird steal a sandwich once – it flew right from the air and snatched it from Joelle’s hand. You know Joelle, right? She’s one of the mages I arrived with – lots of curly hair. Well, I guess Joelle _could_ have been hurt… if the bird had aimed poorly and hit her face rather than the sandwich. But I don’t think-”

“Shut up, Steve,” Moira snaps from over Harding’s other shoulder, her deep voice rumbling with weariness, and though Harding does not voice it, she is grateful for the woman’s assistance in putting a stop to Steve’s endless prattling. 

The silence comes as a welcome (if rare) relief.

Steve has talked non-stop since they’d left Skyhold almost a month before. And when he isn’t babbling pointlessly, he’s asking questions, _endless_ questions. Questions about their mission; questions about their location; questions about the Inquisition.

Harding hadn’t minded at first; in fact, it had been quite nice to show off her knowledge of the Frostbacks and the Hinterlands, share little scouting tips she’d learnt over the years. After all, his curiosity is understandable; Steve had until very recently been a Circle Mage, with severely limited experience of Thedas. In some ways it’s admirable, this insatiable appetite for information, and Harding is happy to impart her wisdom.

Or, at least, she _had_ been happy. She had long ago reached the end of her patience and Steve’s constant questioning has now become immensely irritating. Scouting trips can be tiresome at the best of times, spending so long on the road, far from home, with bad food and little rest, spending every day with only a small group of companions – and Steve’s prattling is not exactly making things any easier.

Harding supposes she shouldn’t be so hard on poor Steve. He’s young, almost painfully young. And he hadn’t exactly _wanted_ to come on this scouting trip either; he had seemed more than happy to stay in the mages quarters in Skyhold. But Harding’s trip to the Frostbacks Basin had attracted a fair amount of interest around Skyhold and the mages had been keen for her to source some rare ingredients if at all possible. As a skilled herbalist, Steve had found himself unanimously volunteered for the trip. (Harding wonders now whether it had all been a ploy to get Steve out of the fortress to give the mages some peace and quiet – she’ll have to make some enquiries upon her return.)

“Right, sorry,” he says, “I’m doing it again, aren’t I? You did tell me to stop and I did say I would try. But I fear I’m not really succeeding, You know… Grand Enchanter-”

“Steve,” Moira rumbles warningly.

“Right, yes, sorry,” he says, “I’m shutting up now. Right _now_.”

Harding finds herself smiling in spite of herself. It’s nice that he’s _trying_ , right? And while she does indeed find Steve _immensely_ irritating, she can’t help but find him somewhat endearing too. _He means well_ , even if he does somehow manage to rub the entire scouting party the wrong way.

And the scouting party’s sullen mood isn’t _entirely_ Steve’s fault. They’ve been away from Skyhold for some time, away from hearty meals, soft beds and the Herald’s Rest. Away from their friends, in some cases, away from their families, and everyone is really rather fed-up.

It doesn’t help that Leliana’s most recent raven brought with it mostly somber news.

Harding and her scouting party had left for the Frostbacks Basin about a month after the Inquisitor had departed Skyhold to march for Adamant Fortress. Far from Skyhold, constantly on the move, they’d received few updates on the Inquisition army’s progress and had been forced to simply speculate on the outcome of the battle. They had no way of knowing how the soldiers would fare against the demon army, how viciously the Wardens would defend their Keep, whether their friends and loved ones would live long enough to return home.

Leliana’s raven had brought with it the welcome news that the siege at Adamant had ended in victory for the Inquisition but also the upsetting information that the victory had come at a cost. The casualties had been remarkably few considering the sheer enormity of the demon army and yet there wasn’t a single member of Harding’s party that had not experienced some sort of loss.

For Harding, it is the fate of her friend Bron that particularly weighs on her mind.

 _Maker_ , to be trapped _physically_ in the Fade! Harding can’t think of anything more terrifying. The concept of dreaming, of the Fade, of spending every night having vivid hallucinations in a realm populated by hungry demons, had always unnerved Harding (she doesn’t understand how non-dwarfs manage to put up with it every night; even enjoy it!). But the thought of walking _physically_ in the Fade, and then becoming trapped there, was enough to maker her skin crawl. She would not wish that fate on even her worst enemy.

To lose a dear friend in such a way – it is utterly _heartbreaking_.

Harding and Bron had been assigned a number of scouting tasks in the early days of the Inquisition. Harding’s familiarity with the Frostbacks, and Bron’s impressive climbing and mountaineering ability, had made them natural partners for uncovering new routes around Haven (both easy routes for supplies and more difficult routes for Leliana’s spies to travel unseen).

The two women had quickly built up an easy rapport which, in time, had developed into a genuine friendship. Bron was a private person, quiet almost to the point of rudeness, but Harding hadn’t really minded that (in fact, this most recent trip has made it abundantly clear to Harding just how valuable silence can be on a scouting mission). In time Bron had opened up to her, talking a little of her childhood in Highever or her time in Orlais.

Harding had liked the stories of Orlais in particular. Having never travelled that far from home, there was something about the sheer _foreignness_ of Orlais that held a strange fascination to Harding. There’s something about the beauty and intrigue of Orlais, a strange romanticism that she’d always found appealing.

Bron’s friendship had kind of snuck up on her. At first they were merely travelling companions. But then over time Harding’s affection had slowly grown, largely unnoticed, until she’d been suddenly struck with the realisation that Bron was probably the closest friend she had in the Inquisition.

And now she is gone. Most likely dead.

Harding is trying very hard not to think about it.

She will mourn of course, _in time_ , but when Harding is on a mission she likes to give it her full concentration. As such, she is determined to push all thoughts of her friend to the back of her mind until she has completed the task at hand. When she is back at Skyhold, _then_ she will mourn; a few drinks in Bron’s honour at the Herald’s Rest, maybe light a candle for her at the Chantry. She knows that Bron was not particularly devout (which had surprised Harding considering Bron’s years of loyal service to the Divine), but Bron had always _liked_ C _hantries_. She liked the peaceful atmosphere, the steady metronome of the Sister’s Chant, the sturdy pillars of stone that towered protectively overhead.

Yes – that’s it; she’ll light a candle. As soon as she’s back in Skyhold.

And it’s not long now until they head home. Just a few more days scouting around the Basin and then Harding will have enough information for her report and they can all return to Skyhold. That’ll be a relief for her whole party. They _all_ could do with a drink at the Herald’s Rest, a toast for lost friends, a prayer for loved ones.

So consumed is she with her morbid musings that Harding startles a little when an armoured hand suddenly taps her on the shoulder. She turns to see Moira wearing a troubled expression, eyes pinched and lips pursed testily.

“I can feel something,” she says, voice pitched low as if imparting a secret. “The Veil feels thin here.”

Harding immediately stops, feeling deeply apprehensive at Moira’s words. Moira is an experienced Templar. She’d come highly recommended by Commander Cullen and had demonstrated her considerable fighting abilities a number of times during their scouting mission. Harding trusts her entirely – which means that if Moira thinks something is afoot with the Veil, Harding certainly believes her, and feels suitable caution is due.

“Oh yes,” Steve pipes up, “the Veil is very weird here. All _squirly_.”

Moira’s nose crinkles at Steve’s choice of words but she nods in agreement nonetheless. Harding only frowns; she’s heard enough to know that she does not want to continue further down their present course. 

“It’s probably a Rift,” Harding says with a sigh, feeling suddenly very tired. She’s encountered her fair share of Rifts during her time scouting for the Inquisition and has quickly learnt to stay _as far away_ from them as possible. It’s not that Harding isn’t capable of holding her own in a fight, her skills with both a bow and a dagger are certainly decent, but until a Rift is closed, the demons come forth unendingly and Harding doesn’t want to become embroiled in an endless battle.

“Let’s not continue this way,” she says, turning to address all of her companions, “we’ll make a note of this location so that the Inquisitor can return later. We’ll turn South to avoid the Rift then try and find somewhere to make ca-“

“Look!” cries Steve, interrupting Harding as he points to the distance with the gnarled end of his wooden staff. “Is that a demon?”

Harding whips around and peers into the deep foliage where Steve’s staff is pointing, eyes probing for any sign of danger. She can’t see anything, just the rotting branches of fallen trees and a thick blanket of pronged ferns. She’s about to question Steve’s eyesight when finally she spots something, a dark form shuffling through the greenery.

“It could be a Minor Terror,” Moira says knowledgeably. “Not too much of a problem on its own but if it spots us, it will alert other demons to our presence and we might find ourselves overcome.”

Harding sighs, rubs her temple with a gloved fist as she feels the first lance of a headache developing. She’d really hoped to avoid any demon entanglement on this trip.

“All right,” she says, lifting her hand to draw all attention to her, “Moira and I will go and deal with the demon. The rest of you – you remain here. Keep your distance; we don’t want to attract any attention. Keep your eyes open, though, watch our backs.”

The scouting party nods in understanding, pulling bows from backs and swords from sheathes in preparation for a fight they would all rather avoid.

Harding gives Moira a terse nod as she walks passed and Moira falls into step behind her as the two women make their way toward the demon. Moira’s armoured feet seem painfully loud as they tramp through the undergrowth and Harding almost wishes she’d left the Templar behind and picked another of her party to accompany her. But then Moira is uniquely skilled at dealing with demons and it would seem foolhardy to overlook those skills at a time like this (especially since Harding _really doesn’t like_ demons – she’d rather face a horde of giant spiders than down a demon. Demons are tricksy, they play with your mind; at least with a spider you know where you stand).

As they near the shadowed, hulking form of the demon, Harding signals at Moira to stop and take cover. Harding takes a few more cautious steps forward, pulling her bow to the ready, before sinking to her knees behind a log. She’ll get off this first arrow, catching the demon by surprise before Moira can surge forward with her longsword and finish the creature off.

The demon is getting closer now, it’s large, bulbous body emerging through the dense foliage of the forest, and Harding is suddenly struck with the feeling that something about this demon is a little… off. Its gait is peculiar, slow and erratic. And it appears to be hunched over. Perhaps the demon has already been injured? 

But then the demon trips over a felled tree branch and Harding is surprised to hear a string of expletives in a distinctly Ferelden accent. Ah – not a demon then. 

She lowers her bow, though keeps the arrow drawn in readiness – it could be an Avvar, famed for their savagery, and Harding does not want to let her guard down prematurely. But as the figure gets closer, she realises that it’s not an Avvar; _it’s someone she knows_. 

It’s that Warden! The one that came to Skyhold several months ago; the old friend of Leliana’s. Allan or Anthony or – _Alistair!_ That’s it! She doesn’t know him well, had probably only spoken to him a few times, but he’d seemed nice, and people seemed to like him – particularly Bron…

Oh shit! _Bron_ – that’s Bron! Her friend’s body is slumped in Alistair’s arms, her limbs hanging limply and her head lolling back insensibly.

Harding immediately returns her bow to her back, all thought of fighting forgotten as she’s suddenly faced with the urgent imperative to check on her friend.

_Is she…? Please, don’t let her be!_

Harding jumps from her hiding place and dashes through the undergrowth until she’s reached Alistair’s side. He looks startled at first, clearly not expecting to see a friendly face here in the forest, but then his expression immediately softens into one of real gratitude. His eyes are dark and hazy with exhaustion but they light up with relief when recognition snaps him to attention.

“Thank the Maker!” he exclaims weakly through cracked, parched lips, “You’re with the Inquisition!” 

Harding largely ignores him, reaching out to press her hand against Bron’s temple in search of a pulse. “Is she?”

“She’s alive,” he answers, “ _barely_. She needs help – _please_ , tell me you have someone who can help her.”

“This way,” Harding says curtly, nodding behind her to indicate the path back to the scouting party.

“I’ll take her,” Moira offers as she reaches out to Bron, and Harding hadn’t even notice her approach, too fixated on the pale, drawn face of her friend.

“No – I’ve got her,” Alistair says, leaning away from Moira as if threatened by her outstretched hands.

“You’re weak and slow,” Moira says with a pointed arch of her brow, “give her to me.” With a sigh, Alistair finally acquiesces, carefully passing Bron’s lifeless body to Moira’s arms with clear reluctance. 

Moira’s right though, Alistair is in a sorry state. Harding had been too focused on Bron before but now that she looks at him properly, she can see what a mess he’s in. His hair is matted with dried blood and Maker knows what else, and there’s even more blood smeared liberally across his shirt (can one man lose that much and still keep fighting?). His back is crooked and bent, his shoulders hunched, and his legs are shaking fitfully with the effort of simply keeping him upright. Bron’s need for a healer might be more urgent but Alistair is also in desperate need of healing. 

Without a word, Harding takes off through the forest to where she told the scouting party to wait, Moira quickly behind her and then Alistair’s exhausted body stumbling at a slower pace behind. Somehow, the distance seems further than before – the forest seeming to stretch and grow in response to her newfound sense of urgency.

But when she finally catches sight of Steve, Harding is amazed at how glad she is to see him.

“Please tell me you know healing magic,” she says instead of a greeting.

He looks a little unnerved by her statement, his eyes narrowing warily. “Ugh… _sort of_? It’s not exactly my forte but I know a _few_ spells. What exactly is the probl-”

His mouth snaps shut when he spots the limp Bron in Moira’s arms. His face grimaces dramatically, clearly alarmed by her sorry state, and Harding can’t really blame him; Bron is not a pretty sight. Her face is grey, skin almost translucent, and her clothes are utterly drenched in bright crimson. There’s a gaping wound in her stomach, an enormous puncture that cuts cleanly through flesh as if Bron were made of merely paper.

“Put her down over here,” he commands with unexpected force, gesturing toward a flat outcropping of rock nestled among the ferns. “I’ll stabilise her as best I can now and then we should move her to somewhere more safe where I can heal her more fully. We’re still near a Rift and it’s not safe.”

Harding is impressed by the sudden professionalism in his voice, the grim determination that has taken over his usually boyish face. Moira immediately obeys, striding quickly across the ground and gently placing Bron atop the rock.

“Jones, Foggy, Wicks,” Harding snaps, beckoning her scouts toward her, “remember that clearing we passed a short while back?” They nod in understanding. “That should be far enough from the Rift. Take the cart. Set up camp. We’ll be there shortly.”

The scouts nod at their orders before scurrying off; leaving an anxious Harding to watch powerlessly over her friend while a painfully young mage tries to save her life. She wishes a mage with more healing experience were there. She wishes they were closer to Skyhold. But this is all they have and it’ll have to do.

When Alistair finally catches up to them, he buckles forward, leaning heavily on his knees while trying to catch his breath.

“You look awful,” Moira says as she eyes him up and down, probably trying to ascertain the full extent of his injuries. “The Mage should look at you once he’s done with your friend.”

“Is she going to be all right?” Alistair asks with a hoarse, desperate voice, ignoring Moira’s comments and looking only to Bron.

Steve doesn’t answer, too intently focused on the task in front of him, and the question is left to hang uncomfortably in the air.

 _Maker, I hope so_ , Harding thinks, _I hope so_.

* * *

 

Alistair’s not sure how long the Mage spends bent over Bron’s lifeless body, curtains of blue magic falling from his fingertips, but when he finally steps back, the grey sky has become tinged with an inky blue and a distinct chill has settled over the forest. 

“That’s all I can do for now,” the Mage says, gesturing weakly at a still very pale Bron. “We should get her back to camp.”

Harding nods in acknowledgement then gives the man a sturdy pat on the back. He flinches, the dwarf’s gesture perhaps a little too forceful for him in his weakened state, but smiles gratefully in response. The Mage is standing unnaturally straight, perhaps trying (and failing) to hide the small shake in his limbs which betrays his exhaustion. 

Alistair takes an unsteady step forward, eager to rush to Bron’s side, to touch her face, to hold her, to feel her heartbeat. But the Templar woman beats him to it, striding swiftly in front of Alistair and lifting Bron easily in her massive arms.

Part of him wants to object – it’s _his_ Bron, she should give her back! – but the far more sensible part of him understands that he’s probably too weak to carry her much further. The battle at Adamant, the Nightmare, the demons in the Fade, carrying Bron through the Rift and then through the rugged terrain of the forest – it’s too much, too much energy expended over too long a time, and Alistair knows he is spent.

And as Moira starts loping through the undergrowth with Bron’s body curled safely against her chestplate, Alistair has to admit to himself that he doesn’t actually know where the Inquisition camp is. In fact, not only does he not know where the camp is – he doesn’t know where _he_ is; he doesn’t seem to recognise this part of Ferelden at all (and it’s even an assumption that they’re in Ferelden – the Inquisition’s reach is far and they could just as easily be in Orlais or even the Free Marches). It is with great discomfort that he finds himself utterly useless.

“This way,” Harding says as she tugs him by the sleeve. Alistair obediently follows her. 

It’s almost a relief, following behind Harding, not really thinking about anything but just concentrating on her back as it bobs up and down with each hurried step. After days (or has it been weeks?) walking aimlessly around the Fade, it’s nice to be following someone who knows where they’re going. In fact, it’s just nice to be around _other people_ again, even if these people are relative strangers to him. It’s nice to see greenery too, to see things that are living, growing. It’s nice to feel a breeze. It’s nice to see the sky – even grey and overcast as it is (at least there are no floating islands or shimmering lights up there).

Most of all it’s nice to have found people who can help Bron. He’d been so afraid that he would lose her, so afraid that she would take her final, shuddering breath while still trapped in the Fade. Lost, alone, surrounded by the corpses of demons – so far from home and all the people that she loves. It would not have been a good death.

When they reach the camp, there’s a brief discussion which Alistair barely registers before Bron is bundled away into one of the tents. He immediately makes to follow her but Harding stops him, standing in front of him with her hands resting authoritatively on her hips. She suddenly seems a lot taller.

“You need healing,” she says, and it’s clear from her tone that this is a command, not a suggestion. Alistair makes no attempt to object. Even if he wanted to, he doubts he has the strength. “Sit here,” she adds, gesturing toward the supply cart, her expression firm but with a softness in her eyes which suggests a sympathy for his miserable state.

For the first time in an unfathomably long time, Alistair sits down. 

The supply cart he’s perched upon is hardly the most resplendent seat he’s ever encountered but there’s a blissful tingle in his feet at the lightening of their load and every muscle in his body seems to slacken blissfully as he sinks onto the wooden surface.

When the Mage returns, there’s a little more colour to his cheeks and Alistair can smell the distinctive tang of lyrium on his breath. Now that he’s closer, Alistair can see how terrifyingly _young_ the man is – surely a few years short of 20! – and he can’t help but wish that there was someone _more experienced_ to carry out the healing. Bron’s stab wound is severe (not to mention the other, smaller injuries she’d received at Adamant) and Alistair would give anything to have some other mage there. He immediately thinks of Wynne, one of his travelling companions during the Blight, whose healing powers had been second to none within the Ferelden Circle. Or even Hawke’s surly friend from Kirkwall (Adar, was it? No – _Anders_?) would be better than this mere wisp of a man standing before him!

Without a word, the Mage lifts his hands and places them on either side of Alistair’s face. Then he closes his eyes, scrunches his nose in concentration, and lets waves of magic fall from his fingers and into Alistair’s body. It’s a weird sensation, an oddly invasive feeling that Alistair doesn’t think he will ever get used to, no matter how often he’s healed. But he can’t feel the sharp rawness at his throat anymore, nor the persistent twinge in his knee - even the throbbing in his back has lessened to merely a dull murmur. He’s not back to full health but Alistair can’t deny that he does feel _better_.

When the waves of blue stop, the Mage slumps forward and Alistair shoots out an arm to catch the young man. He’s clearly exhausted, having pushed himself to the limits of his power to help Bron and now Alistair. His eyes are heavy, skin pale and damp with a thin sheen of perspiration. Alistair is suddenly very ashamed at having thought so little of a man to whom he owes so much. 

“Thank you,” Alistair says, pleasantly surprised to find that his throat is no longer ripped raw every time he speaks.

“You’re welcome,” the Mage replies with a weak smile, “It’s not perfect, I’m afraid. I’m not the best Healer, you see. But we _do_ have the ingredients for some rather splendid potions – and I’m going to whip something up for you… and your friend, of course. If you just… _rest_ … I’ll start-“

“Thank you,” Alistair repeats, interrupting the young man before he can start on some lengthy monologue. Alistair’s grateful to the young man, of course, and he doesn’t want to appear rude – but he does rather _desperately_ want to see Bron.

Alistair loiters long enough to make sure that the Mage can stand steadily on his own then starts crossing the camp to duck into the tent where Bron has been laid to rest. Before he can reach the tent though, Harding once more steps in his way.

“No, not yet,” she says, raising a hand to stop him.

“I need to see Bron,” he states simply, trying to sound cordial but failing to suppress a twang of irritation at having been prevented from seeing Bron once again.

“Not in that state,” she responds, pointedly looking him over with a disdainful expression. Alistair looks down at himself and – yes – he supposes Harding has a point; his clothes are filthy, smeared with blood (both his and Bron’s) and all manner of demon viscera he’d really rather not think about.

“There’s a stream just north of the camp,” she says. “You can clean up there. Wicks can lend you some of his clothes; you two seem roughly the same size. I’ll let you see her once you’re clean – it’s more hygienic that way.”

He wants to argue, though he knows there’s very little point in trying. Harding does not seem the type to be easily swayed; her face is gentle and her smiles are kind but there’s a fierceness in her eyes that suggests a steeliness with which Alistair is too weak to contend.

With an obedient nod, Alistair slinks across the camp to get himself cleaned up.

It’s fully dark by the time Alistair returns from the stream, and while a roaring campfire keeps the camp bathed in vivid yellows and reds, an impenetrable blackness hides the forest from view. The small scouting party stays close to the fire, carrying out their mundane tasks while stealing whatever precious warmth they can.

He tugs awkwardly at the sleeve of his borrowed shirt as he steps into the halo of light. The sleeves are a few inches too short, exposing a long swathe of skin along his forearm, and the front of the shirt gapes where the buttons are pulled too tightly across his chest. Wicks may be a similar height to Alistair but his frame is far narrower and nothing really fits _quite right_. Alistair does not consider himself a vain man but the crisp air makes him wish that the shirt did not strain so awkwardly, leaving little gaps for the wind to pry and nip. 

Harding is talking to one of the scouts as he approaches but she stops the conversation long enough to cast her eyes over him. She gives one short nod and he takes that as an indication that she approves of his newly cleaned state. It’s all the permission he needs and he hastily bounds toward Bron’s tent.

There’s a strange tumult of emotions as he enters the tent. At first he feels excitement - excitement to see Bron, to hold her, to feel her warmth, to feel reassured that, despite all his fears, she is indeed _alive_. But he also feels the undeniable thrum of terror. He’s terrified that her condition may be worse than he hopes, that her wounds may have been too excessive for the Mage’s meager healing abilities.

He’s surprised to find the Templar sitting by Bron’s side, looking remarkably serene for someone wearing full Templar armour. She looks like a statue, a mighty obelisk keeping guard over its domain, warding away intruders. The sight of her is actually rather comforting; he’s glad that no one left Bron alone. 

Either she doesn’t notice him enter or she chooses not to respond but she maintains her motionless vigil even as Alistair stoops clumsily under the canvas flap. It’s not until he kneels down next to Bron that she raises her head, nodding in acknowledgement and shifting aside slightly to make room for him.

“I’m Moira,” the Templar says, extending a hand which he gladly takes. “I’ve heard about you – _both_ of you.”

She pauses, and there’s an uncertainty in her expression that Alistair suspects is rarely present; Moira seems like the kind of woman who is always unfailingly sure of herself. After a short pause, her curiosity seems to get the better of her and she asks, “did you _really_ walk in the Fade – _physically_? What’s... what's it like?”

The almost childlike wonderment in her voice causes Alistair to chuckle slightly. It’s not the kind of question he’d have expected from such a stony woman. “Yes – I really did,” he replies, wearily, “it was… pretty shit, to be honest.”

She nods, then furrows her brow. For a moment Alistair is afraid that she’s going to ask more of him; that his flippant answer has left her unsatisfied. And he really, _really_ doesn’t want to talk about the Fade – or what he endured while trapped there. He doesn’t want to describe the sheer horror of the Nightmare’s hulking, writhing form. He doesn’t want to remember the feel of Bron’s rapier cutting into his neck. He doesn’t want to think about the taunting and the temptation from demons wearing the faces of his old friends. He’s therefore relieved when she simply gives him a gentle (perhaps pitying?) smile and rises from the ground with impressive elegance considering the bulk of her armour.

“I’ll leave you two,” she says as she ducks out through the tent flap, then shouts back, “get some rest!” before disappearing into the camp. 

He’s glad when she’s gone – not because he doesn’t like her; Moira seems like a solid, dependable sort of person – but because he really just wants to be alone with Bron.

Casting his eyes over her, she looks even smaller than usual - a tiny shadow of a woman nestled among a bed of animal furs and buried beneath a thick, woolen blanket. Her skin is still pale, her body still stiff and unmoving, but he’s pleased to discover that she doesn’t look _quite_ as ashen as she did before.

Someone’s washed her. Her skin is no longer smeared with blood and grit and there’s a soft smell of lilac soap in the air. Her hair has been cleaned and brushed and now fans out across her pillow like a dark halo. _Bron won’t like that_ , he thinks; she never sleeps with her hair loose, prefers it neatly braided instead.

Her hands have been placed gently on top of each other on her chest. It looks oddly formal, almost as if she’s praying in her sleep. He picks up one of her hands, lifts it to his face to press the palm against his cheek. It’s troublingly cold but pleasantly soft and he holds it steady against his skin. 

“Hello, you,” he says, “you’re looking a bit better.”

His words are met with silence.

“The Mage-boy did a good job. He barely looks old enough to shave, let alone cast a spell. But he’s kept you alive so… he can’t be all bad, I suppose.”

More silence. His ears strain to listen for a response – a moan, a sigh, any tiny indication that she can hear him.

“Harding is here. I think you’ve mentioned her before; she’s your friend, right? I like her. She has a kind face. And she knows what she’s doing, which is comforting because I… I-I _really_ don’t know what I’m doing, Bron.”

He can feel the first tear start to course down his cheek, a damp trail which smarts in the chill of the night air. 

“What am I supposed to do, Bron? What am I…? I don’t know how to make things better, Bron. I don’t know how to help you. I…”

More tears fall, slowly at first, then faster, until his cheeks are slick and his eyes feel raw and dry. Droplets fall from his face onto the blanket tucked primly around Bron, leaving an erratic pattern of dark spots across the plaidweave. He holds her hand tighter, pressing it closer to his cheek until it too is slick with his tears.

“Don’t you dare leave me, Bron. Not now, not after everything we’ve gone through. _Don’t you dare_.”

He can’t lose Bron, can’t lose another one. Not after Uncle Eamon, after Duncan and the Wardens, after Elissa – everyone he has ever loved, every place he has ever called home – he’s lost them all. _He can’t lose Bron._

Gingerly, careful not to disturb her, he lies down beside her, head resting on the edge of her pillow, face mere inches from hers. He’s still holding her hand, like a desperate man clinging to the wreckage of a shipwreck, his anchor against the tides.

“It’s all right, Bron,” he whispers, “Everything is going to be all right, Bron. You’ll see. You just have to trust me. You’re going to be all right. You’re going to be all right. You _have_ to be all right. You have to be – because I’m not sure what I’ll do if you’re not – I’m not sure what I’ll do without you.”

He’s mumbling now, incoherent but steady – like a chant, a frantic incantation to the Maker, or the Creators, or whatever god will listen. When sleep finally claims him, the words are still running through his head – a prayer that he clings to with the fervour of a desperate man, as if words enough can stave off death and keep Bron by his side.

Everything is going to be all right. _Everything is going to be all right_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come on guys! Did you really think I was going to kill Bron?! I love her too much for that...


	19. New Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starts with a flashback!
> 
> And then Bron is confused (and a little bit disappointed).

**Ten years earlier – Denerim**

Alistair shoves a tunic into the bottom of his pack, thumping it tightly between a pair of breeches and a woolen jerkin. Then he grabs a leather belt and it follows the tunic into his pack, ending up unceremoniously wedged between an old pair of gloves and the small pouch that holds his sword oil.

He’s aware that he’s not doing a particularly good job at packing as he haphazardly stuffs items into his bag – but he’s finding it hard to care about order or precision right now. All that matters is speed. All that matters is getting his things and _getting out_. 

His hands delve back into the chest that sits at the end of his bed and pull out another bundle of clothes which spill messily onto the floor of Arl Eamon’s guest room. He’s somewhat amazed to discover just how much _stuff_ he has managed to acquire; he’d never thought of himself as much of a hoarder. But then they _had_ been travelling for some time, picking up items as they crossed back and forth across Ferelden, and the luxury of Bodahn’s cart meant that he’d never had to be particularly discerning with what he decided to keep.

Well now he doesn’t have that luxury – no more Bodahn, no more travelling companions, no one to share his burdens. Now he can only keep what he can carry and he needs to decide what’s important and what’s disposable. 

He throws aside a heavily worn undershirt and then another – they’re in a miserable state, not really worth saving, and he can always pick up more when he reaches Ostwick. Or Kirkwall. Or wherever the hell he ends up. As long as he’s not in Ferelden (or Orlais, if he’s honest – just because he’s been exiled doesn’t mean he’s lost his standards).

A tunic with a bad rip along the left shoulder joins the undershirts in a sorry pile on the floor. It could probably be repaired easily enough but right now it just seems like another unnecessary burden. He can only take the essentials – nothing that will weigh him down, nothing that will slow his escape from Ferelden.

Then his hands fall upon a small stone figurine hidden within the folds of a crusty old scarf and they still in their frantic movements. It’s a man, a warrior more precisely, with a round shield in one hand and a longsword in the other. On the warrior’s back is what was probably a pike of some sort – it’s been worn down over the years and is now only a small stub. The stone warrior looks up at him with a stoic solemnity and Alistair frowns at him in response – _you think you’re having a tough time?_ Alistair thinks, _try being betrayed by the only woman you have ever loved and exiled from your home_. The stone warrior remains silent.

Alistair spends a few moments moving the figurine back and forth between his hands, enjoying the sturdy weightiness of the warrior and twisting him round to appreciate the impressive craftsmanship. Eventually he stands the figurine on the parquet floor and reaches back toward the scarf to find the stone warrior’s companions. There’s a small stone dragon, and a particularly impressive Pride Demon carved from onyx. He picks each one up in turn, looking them over carefully, before placing them in a neat row next to his clothes and assorted pieces of armour. 

The final figurine is a small woman cast from brass, and he cups this one carefully in his hands as he looks upon her tiny, expertly-crafted face. She’s wearing a long robe of sorts – a mage perhaps? But then she’s lacking a staff so Alistair supposes she’s probably a Chantry sister. She’s the favourite of his little collection. Not as impressive as the Pride Demon, nor as fun to play with as the stone warrior – but this one is special.

 _This one was first_.

He can still remember it so vividly. They’d just made camp a little north of Lothering and Alistair had been sitting propped up against a log around the fire, feeling utterly exhausted after saving Bodahn and his son from a Darkspawn attack. He’d immediately sat up when he’d seen Elissa approach, not wanting to appear slothful or tired (and it’s funny how, right from the beginning, he’d so desperately wanted her to think well of him).

They’d talked for a little – mostly about Lothering, about the impending arrival of the Darkspawn, about the tragedy that would inevitably befall anyone who failed to flee. And then she’d fallen silent and Alistair had assumed she was trying to think of some polite way of excusing herself from his company. Instead she’d delved her hand into the pocket of her jacket and pulled out the small brass woman. She’d handed it to him with a stuttering comment (and it was such an endearing moment of vulnerability – the great Elissa _never_ stuttered) and he’d accepted it with a pathetic attempt at a joke to hide how incredibly _touched_ he was by the gesture (a gift? When was the last time he’d been given a gift?).

Soon the brass woman was joined with her other tiny companions but this one – this first gift – this one was special and Alistair had treasured it unlike anything else in his possession. He would get it out at night – when the dreams of the Archdemon kept him from finding restful sleep – and look at the woman’s serenely smiling face and feel… _at peace_ somehow, less alone.

Now her serenity seems cloying – how _dare_ she look so calm when his world is crumbling around him? He doesn’t place her with the others but lets her drop unceremoniously from his hands, not even watching long enough to see her roll across the wooden slats and disappear out of sight under a wardrobe.

Good riddance.

None of the figurines make it into his pack. They’re just dead weight now. Their only value had been sentimental and he doesn’t want to be reminded of sentiment now. He doesn’t want to be reminded of Elissa’s shy smiles as she’d handed over each gift or how her eyes had sparkled each time he’d gladly accepted them. He doesn’t want anything that reminds him of her.

He grabs a handful of socks instead – _excellent_ , socks! Socks are _important_ ; that had been drilled into him again and again during his Templar training. A pair of clean, dry socks is all that stands between a man and a myriad of debilitating, grossly unpleasant foot disorders. He’d been taught to change his socks as regularly as possible – to keep them clean and dry and replace them whenever the opportunity presented itself. He’d kept that habit throughout his whole career as a Templar, and then a Warden, and he will keep it up throughout his exile as well.

Yes – exile can’t be that bad as long as he’s wearing a good pair of socks!

A laugh manages to escape through his clenched jaw – strangled and sad, it startles him how _unhinged_ it sounds to his ears.

“I’m not sure what’s funny,” comes a voice from behind him and Alistair freezes, his hands still clutching at socks.

He _knew_ that she would come – _of course_ she would come – but part of him had hoped that he might be able to get away before she’d been able to find him (not that their shared room in Arl Eamon’s Denerim estate was a particularly cunning hiding place). Perhaps the nobles would have kept her attention, or Anora, or one of their companions. She’s the great Elissa Cousland after all, the last of the Wardens, the hero who’d rallied an army of allies to face the Archdemon, who’d united the nobles and defeated Teyrn Loghain at the Landsmeet. Surely she has things to do, people to see. Surely she’s too busy to see little ol’ Alistair.

He should have known he would not be that lucky. 

Well – he might as well get this over and done with. Just face it head-on – that’s the best way. He takes a few deep, steadying breaths before turning away from his haphazard packing and standing to greet his unwelcome guest.

“It’s nothing,” he says flatly, then pauses, expecting her to say something. Because _surely_ she wouldn’t be here if she didn’t have something to say; _surely_ she has some words to say in her defence.

Instead a silence falls over the room – close and stifling and _grossly_ uncomfortable – and Alistair feels himself growing impatient. He doesn’t have the time to wait. He doesn’t have the time for Elissa to find her words. He needs to get packing; he needs to _get out_. 

“What do you want?” he finally snaps, and he’s perversely pleased when he sees her startle at his sharp tone. She’d been leaning casually against the doorjamb at first but now she straightens, hands clasped awkwardly in front of her. She’d been wearing her Warden armour at the Landsmeet but she’s since changed into a simple tunic and leather breaches; she looks so normal now, so inoffensive. It’s hard to believe that such an innocent-looking creature could have so thoroughly fucked him.

“I wanted to…” she hesitates, uncertain how to answer, “to see you.”

He huffs, shaking his head and turning back as if to resume his packing. “Well – you’ve seen me. You can go now.”

“Alistair!” she shouts, like a school-mistress scolding a recalcitrant student, and Alistair immediately stops. He hates that she has this affect on him, that even after everything that’s happened, he still can’t help but obey her.

With a wearied sigh, he turns back to face her. He’d been determined before, standing with a straight back and a severe expression. But he’s already feeling tired, as if the mere sight of her has drained him of his fortitude, and he can feel his posture slacken, his expression falling into something akin to gentleness.

“What do you want, Elissa?” he repeats, his voice now softer than before, and she clearly takes this as some sort of invitation, stepping into the room and closing the space between them (though not entirely, he notes; she still keeps a few strides distance). 

“I wanted to talk, Alistair, about…” she gestures around her vaguely, “about everything that just happened.” She’s looking at him oddly, and he finds it unusual that he can’t read her expression (he’d become _so good_ at that during their time travelling together). Her eyes droop, looking lost and almost sad, but there’s a twist to her lips which suggests disdain.

“It seemed rather self-explanatory to me,” he says, furrowing his brows sullenly. “You spared Loghain’s life, utterly betrayed me, and then had me exiled. What part has left you confused?”

“That’s not what happened,” she replies gruffly.

“That’s _exactly_ what happened!” he snaps back, all cordiality gone from his voice, replaced with only hardness.

“Loghain will take the Joining – he may not survive,” she explains, “I have not spared him – merely left his fate in the Maker’s hands.”

Alistair can’t help but scoff at that. He’s been travelling with Elissa for over a year now and he _knows_ that she’s not particularly devout. Elissa does not leave things in the Maker’s hands; she takes action by her own. It is a poor excuse, a desperate attempt to justify the indefensible.

“Joining the Wardens is an honour, not a punishment!” he roars. “By naming him a Warden – you cheapen us all!”

“ _Cheapen_ the Wardens?” she asks skeptically, and he hates that she sounds so… _amused_. “The Wardens happily welcome all manner of criminals into their ranks – I’m not sure how Loghain’s recruitment is any different.”

“Loghain isn’t just a petty thief! He abandoned the Wardens at Ostagar then blamed _us_ when the battle was lost! He’s hunted us down like animals! He’s tortured people, _murdered_ – how can you forget that?!”

“I haven’t forgotten any of that!” she shouts back, “but now he will atone for what he has done. There’s a poetic justice here – he helped destroy the Ferelden Wardens and now he will become one of them.”

“Fuck poetry! He’s a monster and I want him dead!”

Her expression turns sharp then, scorn and judgement radiating from narrowed eyes. He’s seen her give that look countless times before – usually before killing someone – but he never would have thought that such a look could be directed at him. Before the Landsmeet he would have withered under such a glare from Elissa, been utterly ashamed to have been its recipient, but now her expression merely makes him stand taller. He doesn’t care that she’s judging him; fuck her judgement.

“You’re talking about petty vengeance – not justice,” she sneers patronisingly.

“You killed Arl Howe,” he points out with a cruel smirk, “what was that if not petty vengeance?”

His words have their intended affect; he can see a flash of shame in her slanting eyes, her bottom lip quiver like a child caught in a lie. He knows that he’s right – that no matter how much Arl Howe deserved to die (and Alistair _does_ believe that he deserved to die), Elissa can’t deny that it was her lust for vengeance that led her to plunge her sword into his chest, to twist her blade as he choked for his last breaths. She could have brought him to justice another way, could have presented him and his myriad of crimes before the Court. Instead she’d murdered him. 

She was allowed her vengeance – why has she denied him his?

“You’re right,” she admits with a shrug. “It _was_ petty vengeance. I wanted him to pay for what he did for my family – and I made sure that he _did_ pay.”

Alistair had not expected her to agree with him. Although he supposes he _shouldn’t_ be surprised. Elissa had always shown willingness to admit when she’s wrong. He’s suddenly reminded of how sensible Elissa can be – honest, willing to compromise. _He’s_ the stubborn one.

“I’m sorry that you didn’t get to take Loghain’s life,” she says, another unexpected admission, “but I’m not sorry for the decision I made. _It’s the right decision_. Ferelden is in dire need of more Wardens, Alistair, and while Loghain may be a monster, he is also a skilled warrior and experienced general. If he survives the Joining, he will make an excellent addition to our ranks.”

Alistair can feel his skin bristle as she talks – ‘ _our ranks’_ – as if Loghain could ever be one of them. Part of him wants to object but her severe expression has forced him into silence. It’s the same expression that had made him follow her in the first place – the expression that made it clear that she was a leader, that she was not to be swayed. 

But even though her face is stern, there’s a sweetness in her eyes that Alistair has always found impossible to resist. He’d always loved those eyes – radiant and honest. When she looks at him – even now, even after the deep betrayal – he still wants to believe her words.

She takes a step forward, raising her hand as if to reach for him then thinking better of it and letting it fall to her side.

“And I’m sorry about the exile – so, _so_ sorry.” There’s genuine pain in her voice and Alistair thinks he can see _tears_ welling in her eyes. Now that _is_ unexpected – it’s not like Elissa to cry; and it seems strange for her to cry for _him_ after she was the one to orchestrate his demise.

“I couldn’t stay here anyway,” he says, tone wearied with acceptance, “not after this.”

“I didn’t want-”

“I don’t care what _you_ want!” he suddenly interrupts, and Elissa squeaks from surprise at the forcefulness of his voice. He’s surprised too; he hadn’t expected the words to come out _quite_ so loud. But he can feel something stirring inside, a growing resentment that has been building and burning while Elissa has been talking. He’s just… _he’s done_. He’s done listening to her talk; he’s done listening to her vain attempts at defending her actions. Why does it matter what _she_ wants? Why does _she_ get what she wants while _he_ gets nothing?

“I used to care – I used to care _so fucking much_ about what you wanted, about what would make you happy,” he says, and though he’s not shouting any more there’s a fierce intensity to his words that leaves Elissa wide-eyed. “That’s what I lived for, you know, when we were fighting through the horrors of Kinloch Hold, or the Dark Roads – I lived for _you_ , I lived for the chance to make you smile. All I wanted was to make… was to make you happy.”

He’s crying too now, his vision turning blurry as the tears well in his eyes before streaking down his cheeks.

“ _I love you_ , Elissa,” he confesses, his voice now barely above a whisper, “I love you more than anything or anyone in all of Thedas. And I thought that you loved me too – I thought that you… but now…”

“I _do_ love you, Alistair!” she cries, taking another step forward, reaching her hands out to him as if to touch him.

Alistair takes a step back.

“If you loved me – you wouldn’t have done this to me!” he shouts, though not with as much force as he’d been shouting before; his words sound more tired than angry.

“You’re not being fair…” she pleads.

“Oh, fuck off Elissa,” he says, “none of this is fair.”

She looks surprised – her body physically recoiling at his words. Was it the expletive that has shocked her so? Or maybe it’s just the weary resignation, the tired voice of a broken man far removed from the idealistic young man she’d met in the ruins of Ostagar.

“I think you should go now,” he says, strangely composed. Tears are still falling from his eyes but his voice is now calm, his face impassive. The fight is gone, all energy drained from his body until only a leaden stiffness remains.

She nods, turns, pauses. She looks thoughtful for a moment, gazing across the room as if searching for something she’s lost. He thinks she might say something but then – nothing. She walks towards the door in soft, slow steps. From the stiffness in her gait, she seems just as wearied as he does.

She stops as she nears the door, lets her eyes fall upon his Warden armour propped up in a nearby wing-backed chair. She raises a hand, lets it fall upon the Griffon which stands proudly in relief on the pauldron.

“You’re not taking this with you?” she asks, voice uncharacteristically small.

“No,” he says blankly, “I’m not a Warden anymore.”

“What about this?” she says, pointing at something he cannot see.

He takes a step forward and cranes his neck to follow her gesturing. His mother’s amulet sits on the small table next to the chair, the chain arranged in a tight spiral around a silver disk.

Immediately he thinks that he will leave it. It was, after all, another gift from Elissa, like the figurines. She’s the one who found it in Arl Eamon’s study, she’s the one who secreted it away and gave it to him.

But then – the amulet is _so much more_ than just a gift from Elissa. It’s proof of Arl Eamon’s feelings for him, proof that he’d been cherished as a child, not just a burden. Most importantly, it’s the only thing he has linking him to his mother. His petulance had led him to throw it away once before – a decision he’d regretted every day thereafter – he won’t make the same mistake again.

He nods as he steps forward, reaching out a hand to pick up the necklace from the surface of the table. Elissa beats him to it, snatching out to pluck the necklace from the table and cradling it gently in her hand. He frowns at her, bemused as to why she would keep his mother’s amulet from him, but she just smiles at him sadly in return.

Perhaps the amulet holds some significance for Elissa as well? Alistair can’t think of any other reason why she would seem so reluctant to part with it now. Perhaps the giving of the gift had meant as much to Elissa as the receiving of the gift had meant to Alistair. After all, the amulet had marked a turning point in their relationship, the moment that they’d both realised they no longer saw the other as mere friend.

She lifts the necklace by its chain, holds it up in front of him and watches intently as the silver disk sways and turns. There’s an inlay of enamel inside the silver circle, blues and purples swirling together. It’s cracked – scars from a sulky outburst as a child – but lovingly reassembled. The amulet catches the candlelight as it twists, shining with a mesmerising luster.

After a pregnant pause, Elissa lowers the amulet into Alistair’s awaiting hand, letting the pendant drop into his palm before gently dropping the chain on top. She curls his fingers around the necklace then cups his hand within her own. Safe and sound.

They stand like that for some time, Alistair’s closed fist enclosed by Elissa’s far smaller, more delicate hands. He waits for her to say something but she’s silent, her face drawn and distant. 

“This wasn’t my idea,” he says to finally break the silence. “I had these dreams,” he pauses, momentarily wistful, thinking back to those times in his tent when he imagined the life he might one day have with Elissa, the family they might build together, “they don’t matter now.”

He steps back, tugging his hand until she reluctantly releases him. He turns and walks away, sinking to his knees beside his bag to resume his packing. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t look to see how long she lingers, doesn’t look to see her finally leave.

He doesn’t care – not anymore – not about Elissa, not about Anora, not about Ferelden or the Wardens. He’ll go into exile. He’s not sure what he’ll do or where he’ll go but it doesn’t matter; he’ll figure that out in time. All that matters now is that _he’s done_ with this life. He’s done with the Wardens – he hopes to never see another Warden as long as he lives. He’s done with Ferelden – he hopes to never step foot in this wretched country again. But most of all he’s done with love. He suspects he will never again feel what he felt for Elissa, that he will never again feel such profound devotion to another living being.

Ah well – it’s probably for the best. What has love brought him except misery and betrayal?

* * *

**9:42 Dragon Age**

Something smells of lilacs – sweet but not cloying, fresh and fruity but without the sharp tang of citrus. It’s a light smell, a _clean_ smell, and-

 _Oh wait_ , Bron thinks, _it’s me!_

She can feel it as much as she can smell it. Her skin is no longer crunchy and stiff, no longer trapped within a shell of dirt. She wants to open her eyes, to look upon freckled skin finally freed from a crusty layer of sweat, blood and dirt, but they don’t seem willing to cooperate. Her eyelids feel impossibly heavy, a little sticky even, as if trapped beneath a spider’s web.

_How long has she been asleep?!_

She doesn’t remember going to sleep – doesn’t really remember _anything_ except… there was the Fade and then the demons. She’d been fighting, _losing_ , and then there was a sharp pain, an explosion of feeling that rippled through her body, and then nothingness.

No wait – she’s forgetting something – something _important_. Before the nothingness, before the blackness of unconsciousness claimed her, there’d been something, _someone_ – Alistair! He’d held her and he’d begged her not to leave him and then… then she doesn’t know. Had she tried to comfort him? Had she told him how much he meant to her? She hopes that she’d spent her last few moments expressing her feelings while she still had the chance; she fears that she didn’t.

Poor Alistair – he deserves better.

She needs to find him – needs to find him and tell him that she’s still alive. That is… if… _if_ she’s still alive. Could she be dead? Maybe this is the afterlife – just her disembodied consciousness floating around in the blackness (and if she _is_ dead then the Chantry has a lot to answer for – shouldn’t she be at the Maker’s side? If he’s there then he’s being awfully quiet).

No – wait – _of course_ she’s not dead. There’s the smell of lilacs! And she can feel warm furs pressed against soft, clean skin. And she _hurts_. She’s pretty certain that if she really was just a disembodied consciousness she wouldn’t be able to feel pain. And she most certainly _can_ feel pain – not the sharp, persistent pain that had dogged her since Adamant – but there’s definitely still a dull throbbing in her ankle and at the back of her skull; a faint echo to remind her of just how badly she’d been injured.

There’s a light pattering sound overhead, the soft drumming of raindrops against a taut fabric – a tent! _She’s in a tent_! And beyond the rain she can hear further noises, heavy items being loaded onto a wooden cart, the occasional grumpy muttering followed by a sharp rejoinder and then a peel of laughter.

There are people! Real people!

Unless… could this all be just a trick of the Fade? _Oh shit_ – the thought makes her stomach clench, her heart lurch in fear. She remembers her mother, or at least the demon wearing her mother’s skin, and it had all seemed so _real_ – the look, the smell, the touch. Every mannerism, every vocal tic was just as she’d remembered from her childhood. How can she know that this is not all just some elaborate illusion?

She really needs to open her eyes! She really needs to see where she is, figure out what’s happening. She hates feeling this powerless, this vulnerable and ignorant. If only she could see her surroundings! Then she could determine whether she was trapped in an illusion or not and then determine what she needed to do next.

 _Come on, Bron_ , she yells in her mind, _open your eyes_! 

Her mind is screaming, railing at her muscles, willing them into action. She just needs to lift her eyelids – how hard can that be?!

Slowly, _painfully_ slowly, her eyes begin to open. They’re stiff – reluctant – gradually creasing open if only to quell the yelling inside her mind. At first she can’t see anything, just a blinding whiteness as her eyes struggle to adjust to the sudden onslaught of daylight. But then the haze of white seems to clear and she can begin to focus on the things around her.

There’s a red canvas stretched a few feet above her head – she was right! She _is_ in a tent! And there’s a blanket pulled up to her armpits, thick and coarse but oddly comforting. It reminds her of the woolen blankets she’d had at home in Highever (before she’d moved to Orlais and become accustomed to finer materials), the ones handed down through successive generations of the family, the ones that always smelled faintly of damp. It's the kind of blanket that makes you feel _safe_. She’s lying on a soft bedroll, extra padding provided by a layer of furs, and she’s the comfiest she has been in a long, _long_ time.

Her arms are arranged neatly across her chest and when she looks down she can see – thank the Maker and all that is holy in the world, _Bron is clean_! Her skin is clean; she’s wearing a crisp, new shirt; and even her hair has been recently washed and then smartly braided just as she prefers.

 _It has to be Alistair_ , she thinks. Who else would take such good care of her? And she’s suddenly hit with the most desperate longing to see him, and the most immense disappointment that he’s not there… except – _wait_ – there’s something warm at her feet. It’s hard to see what though; she can only just make out an indistinct blur at the edge of her peripheral vision. She wishes she could get a better view but she’s not quite sure whether she can tilt her head (moving her eyelids had been enough of a challenge).

 _Come on, Bron_ , her mind yells again, _move your head_!

She’s astonished at just how bossy she can be.

With another monumental bout of effort, Bron slowly tilts her head to look down at her feet.

There, curled at the end of the bedroll like an obedient dog, lies Alistair. He’s clean too, his boyish features peaceful in sleep, and his blonde hair tousled and pleasantly gore-free. His clothes are new, like hers, but profoundly creased; he’s clearly been lying in vigil for some time and Bron can’t help but feel a jitter of excitement at the sweetness of such a gesture.

She wants to reach out and touch him, card her fingers through his hair, but it’s taken so much effort just to open her eyes and tilt her head, she’s not sure she can muster the strength to lift her arm. Her weakness is infuriating – he’s _right here_ and she can’t even touch him!

He probably needs his sleep though. After everything they’ve been through at Adamant and then the Fade – he certainly deserves some rest. The sensible thing would be to leave him be. No matter how desperately she wants to touch him, to speak to him, to hear him laugh and tell bad jokes, she knows she shouldn’t be so selfish as to wake him (but, _oh_ , how _desperate_ she is to be selfish). 

For a long time she just watches him sleep, watching the soft rise and fall of his chest and listening to the endearing little snorts he makes when he shifts. It looks profoundly uncomfortable, curled up at her feet like that – but she supposes there’s nothing much she can do about that. He looks content anyway, the worry and the tension finally drained from his features. He’s held that stress for far too long – even when asleep in the Fade, his face had remained taut and tight. Maybe it really is impossible to find peace in the Fade.

Suddenly the sound of a distant crash invades the privacy of the tent, followed by a string of colourful expletives. It’s too quiet for Bron to discern what’s being spoken but clearly loud enough to invade Alistair’s sleep because his head suddenly jerks up, his eyes blinking rapidly as they try to adjust to wakening.

His head swings wildly back and forth as he tries to find the source of the disturbance, perhaps expecting some sort of trouble, but it soon becomes clear that there is no danger present and the alarm drains from his body as quickly as it had arrived. Whatever incident has happened within the camp, no one disturbs the refuge of the tent and calm returns as soon as Alistair lets himself relax once more.

He wriggles a little where he lies, perhaps trying to get comfortable, and it looks like he’s about to fall asleep again, his head drooping slightly to the side, when he casts his eyes toward her face and suddenly stops. He looks a little startled – his eyes widening and his bottom lip dropping to a gape.

“You look better after a rest,” she somehow manages to croak out, words pushed passed chapped lips through stubbornness alone.

He’s staring at her with open astonishment, clearly not expecting to see her awake, but then the surprise in his eyes is slowly replaced with growing tenderness and his mouth switches into a small, tentative smile. There’s an odd pause as he stares at her, lips apart but no sounds coming out – perhaps he’s lost for words.

“That’s what _I’m_ supposed to say,” he finally says, hurriedly attempting to uncurl himself, stretching out his limbs one by one and grimacing when his elbow lets out an angry pop. Shit – he really _has_ been down there too bloody long.

“How long have you been awake?” he asks as he crawls up the side of her bedroll, placing his hands and knees with excessive care so as to not touch her. 

“Not long, I don’t think,” she croaks, “I was just…” for a moment she considers admitting the truth – that she was watching him sleep – but that seems far too sentimental, far more apt for a trashy romance novel, and she decides on a half-truth instead. “I was listening to the rain.”

He nods as he stretches his body alongside hers, lying on his side so that he can look at her, close enough that she can feel the warmth radiating from him but not so close that they’re touching. One arm comes up and she expects him to wrap it around her, to pull her close and hold her tightly against his chest. She’s a little disappointed when instead he just takes one of her hands, holding it gently where it rests on her chest. She can’t quite place it but his behaviour seems off – slightly odd – like he’s holding something back, keeping his movements controlled and his words soft.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” he murmurs quietly. “It’s a soothing sound.”

They lapse into silence. And while normally Bron likes silence – she can’t help but feel that there’s been maybe a bit too much silence recently. The silence of sleep; the strange, stifling silence of the airless Fade. And Alistair is _not_ silent; Alistair is babbling chatter and infectious laughter. And as much as she values the quiet; she values him more.

What’s _wrong_ with him? Maybe he took a hit to the head in the Fade. Maybe she is still _in_ the Fade – and this is all just a demon’s elaborate illusion (and the demon has done a _very poor_ job at imitating Alistair).

“What’s wrong?” she finally asks, preferring, as always, a straightforward question. 

He looks a little surprised at her question, his head quirking to the side as he looks at her. “Nothing’s wrong – not now… not now that you’ve-“

“Why are you being so quiet then?” she interrupts with another question, her frustration growing. “Why are you keeping your distance?”

A flush spreads across his cheeks and he looks at her a little sheepishly. She still doesn’t understand – have his feelings waned since they escaped the Fade?

“Steve said that you need rest,” he admits. “He said that when you woke up, I needed to be careful not to disturb you. You need peace and quiet to recover.”

“Who the fuck is Steve?” she snaps with irritation, “and why should I care what he says?”

“He’s the Mage who healed you, Bron, and me – and he gave me very strict instructions to-“

“Just shut up and kiss me,” she interrupts again, squeezing his hand where it lies entwined with her own on her chest.

He smiles crookedly, a pleased little lilt to his lips, but his eyebrows are furrowed with concern.

“I shouldn’t…” he objects weakly, but he’s already leaning in closer, his face so close to hers that she can feel his breath whisper against her skin.

Whatever instructions he’d been given are forgotten as soon as his lips meet hers. It’s not the most intense kiss she’s ever received – it’s soft and chaste, overly restrained – but it’s warm and it’s sweet and it’s _Alistair_. He rolls over ever so slightly until his body is pressed flush with her own, the cautious space he placed between them temporarily forgotten, and Bron can’t help but let out a pleased moan.

He pulls back far too soon and Bron is left scowling as he retreats.

That won’t do.

She marshals her meagre strength until she manages to reach out with her free hand, grabbing the lapel of his collar. Her grip is weak, her arm trembling with the effort, but the gesture is enough to stop him. He looks down at her hand where it curls insistently into the fabric of his shirt.

“Don’t move,” she pleads.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, and there’s so much pain in his voice that Bron thinks she might finally understand what’s going on.

He’s not cold and distant – he’s _afraid_.

“You won’t hurt me,” she tries to reassure him. “You could never hurt me, Alistair. You saved me.” She gives his hand a squeeze to reaffirm her words. “You _saved me_.”

He smiles, small and gentle but definitely _there_ , and Bron hopes that’s a sign he’s found comfort in her words. She lets go of his shirt, her arm landing heavily on the blanket as her strength fails her, and she’s pleased when he makes no attempt to move, keeping his body pressed flush against her side. Bron’s heart leaps happily in her chest, pleased by this small victory – she feels like she’s slowly getting her Alistair back.

“What happened?” she asks after a comfortable moment of silence.

“You were stabbed,” he replies, sounding suddenly pained, his eyes dropping to her stomach as if he can see her wound through the blanket.

“Yes – I was there for that bit,” she quips back, trying to alleviate some of the tension, trying to stop Alistair from retreating from her again. “I meant after that.” 

He breaths out a soft chuckle, shaking his head with incredulity. He clearly hadn’t expected her to attempt a joke. Bron can’t help but feel pleased with herself – his laughter is another small victory.

“I carried you through the Rift and we ended up back in Ferelden, in the Frostbacks Basin to be precise,” he explains, sounding noticeably less troubled, perhaps finally believing that Bron really is all right. “I carried you around for a little bit – I thought you’d… well… I wasn’t certain if you’d…” He stumbles a little with his words. Bron doesn’t really need him to speak – _he thought she’d die_.

“I had no idea where we were or where I should go. Luckily the Inquisition found us – Scout Harding to be precise.”

“Harding is here?!” she exclaims, unable to control her excitement at the prospect that such a dear friend could be close at hand. 

“Yep,” he says, chuckling again at her excitement, “and thank goodness she found us when she did. I think she’s pretty desperate to see you. She’s been keeping her distance, though. I think she’s trying to give me my space. She’s very thoughtful.”

Bron simply nods – that’s exactly the Harding she knows: kind, endlessly considerate. Harding was the first friend Bron made upon joining the Inquisition, for a long time she’d been the _only_ friend Bron had in the Inquisition (other than Leliana of course). Harding didn’t seem to mind that Bron was quiet, didn’t want mindless chit-chat or forced camaraderie – she seemed content to just let Bron be.

“She had a Mage with her, _Steve_ – he healed you. He healed me too. He’s a good kid – very chatty, though. You’ll hate him.”

Bron lets out a puff of laughter. It’s nice just listening to Alistair talk. And it’s not just the sound of his voice, she can _feel_ his words through the rise and fall of his chest. It’s a strangely comforting sensation. For someone who values her personal space as keenly as Bron, it’s a revelation to find nearness so pleasant.

“How long have I been asleep?” she asks, a question she’s been considering herself for a while. Her limbs are stiff, her eyes heavy – she fears it must be some time and she’s almost afraid to know the answer.

He looks uncomfortable, dipping his eyes and letting his gaze wonder around the tent. It’s clear the answer upsets him; the burden of waiting has taken its toll and Bron aches to see him so uneasy.

“A few days,” he finally answers, a troubled shadow darkening his expression. 

Shit – a few _days_ – that’s a long time to be asleep. Her injury must have been severe indeed. Bron feels a shiver along her spine, as icy coldness in the pit of her stomach – she only now realises just how close to death she must have been. It’s a pretty discomforting feeling.

“We’re not far from Skyhold,” he continues when she doesn’t say anything further, his voice sounding lighter, more hopeful. “We’ll travel back as soon as you’re well enough to move. It will only take us a few days, a week at most. So don’t worry – we’ll be home soon.”

She leans into Alistair, squeezing his hand tightly as she nuzzles her head into the nook between his neck and shoulder. “I’m already home,” she breaths against his collarbone.

She can’t see his expression at her words but she can hear the contented sigh that escapes him.

They lie in silence for a time – and this time the quiet doesn’t bother her. It’s a comfortable silence, no longer haunted by unspoken words. It’s a relief to know what happened, to know how she was saved, to know that Alistair was with her at every moment, to know that they’re so close to Skyhold. And Alistair seems more content now as well – knowing that Bron is safe, is healthy and _happy_. It’s the kind of silence that has come to typify their relationship – the kind of silence that proves they don’t need words to feel close to one another.

“You know… I’ve been thinking…” he says after a long, indulgent pause, “about something important.”

“Oh?” she asks with curiosity – and perhaps a little bit of trepidation. Is there something he’s been hiding from her? Maybe a wound that couldn’t be healed? Maybe some ill news about the Inquisition that he learned from Harding? She carefully leans her head back, eager to see his expression and read what could be wrong.

“ _The Grand Oak_ ,” he says simply, breaking into a crooked, gawky smile. His tone is casual, conversational, as if his statement is perfectly self-explanatory.

“The what?” she asks, clearly surprised by his peculiar statement.

“You asked me once about my favourite tree-related story. And I’ve given it a lot of thought and… _The Grand Oak_ – it’s my favourite tree-related story.”

She laughs, high and bright. “I wasn’t expecting an answer, I was just… distracting you from the Calling. Or at least trying to.”

“Well I took it as a serious question and I’ve been giving it the serious thought it deserved.” 

She laughs again, amused by the sheer absurdity of their conversation. “I’m going to regret asking you that, aren’t I?”

“I don’t know – it depends how much you like puns.”

“I hate puns.”

“That is a blatant lie,” he chastises gently, knocking his forehead against hers, “you _love_ puns. You just don’t want to admit it because you want to maintain this façade of suave aloofness.”

She arches one brow sharply. “I have a façade of suave aloofness?”

“Yes – well, to other people you do. But of course _I_ know you better than that.”

She snorts with amusement. “Oh, _do you_ now?”

“Yeah – I know _everything_ about you,” he declares, waggling his eyebrows suggestively and delighting in the way she rolls her eyes in response. “You like old ruins, and _really_ good maps. You love the sea but prefer the mountains. You like heights – you like being able to see all around you.” He’s squeezing her hand as he speaks, smirking smugly as he proves that Bron is not the _only_ keen observer. “You prefer the cake in Orlais but the tea in Ferelden. You, quite rightly, prefer dogs to cats. And you sing to yourself when you think no one can hear you.”

She blushes when he mentions the singing, and she’s surprised at just how fiercely she can feel the burning in her cheeks. _She hadn’t realised he’d heard her_. It’s a silly, childish habit – the kind of comfort one picks up when one spends a lot of time alone.

It’s embarrassing listening to Alistair list all her foibles but also… pleasing? Because it feels terribly peculiar to have someone know her as well as Alistair does – but also terribly nice. 

Bron has always been a quiet person – distant, detached. Even with her closest friends and family, it takes a long time for anyone to really get to know her, to understand her. Some _never_ really understand her, despite many years of acquaintance. For someone to know her so intimately – it comes as a revelation. A marvellous, heart-warming, revelation.

“So are you going to let me tell you about The Grand Oak or not?” he asks with feigned peevishness.

“Yes – tell me _all_ about the tree,” she says with pointed exaggeration. “There is nothing I want more in the world than to hear you talk about trees.”

He laughs, and she laughs too, and though she is mocking him with her words – they’re also _true_. There really is nothing she wants more right now than to listen to Alistair talk about trees. And not just trees – she wants to listen to him _talk_ , to let his idle prattle and silly jokes wash over her, a comforting blanket of sound to reassure her that he’s near. 

This is what she wants – _he_ is what she wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I first wrote out my rough plan for this fic - Elissa did not make an appearance. But then the more I wrote about other characters talking about her, the more I wanted to hear from her directly. So that's how this flashback came to be. It was a lot of fun to write - I literally just sat down and the words just came and I bashed out 3,000 words in like an hour (which is a remarkable level of productivity for me!)


	20. Silver and Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair has a very, very good evening. 
> 
> The description promised eventual smuttiness and we have now reached that eventuality. I hope it was worth the wait - I tried to keep it classy.
> 
> This chapter is LONG (so you might want to grab a cup of tea and settle in) because we're near the end of the fic and I wanted to touch on a number of themes as well as show several of the characters being happy and fulfilled before the end. 
> 
> It was also a pleasure to write - it's such a joyful chapter. Although I hate writing smut; I am a massive prude (I blame my strict, Christian upbringing and years spent at a stuffy, British boarding school).

Varric is laughing as he refills Alistair’s glass, the shaking in his arms from the full-bodied chuckles causing the wine to splosh across the tabletop as he pours. He mutters out an apology but doesn’t stop pouring, filling the glass to its brim with dark, crimson liquid.

Alistair gives his friend a nod as he thanks him then lifts the glass to his lips to take a long, indulgent sip. The warm liquid slides pleasantly down his throat, dark and smoky, offset with just the slightest hint of sweet vanilla. Alistair is not an expert in wines but he knows enough to know that this is the good stuff, probably from Varric’s private stash rather than Skyhold’s usual holdings.

Alistair knows from his time in Kirkwall that Varric only shares his wine with a select cohort of friends, and usually only in the privacy of his rooms at the Hanged Man. So for Varric to have pulled out a few of his bottles tonight, and to be sharing them among such an odd assortment of acquaintances, is a rare honour indeed. It is an occasion to be appreciated – and Alistair _does_ appreciate it.

Skyhold’s Great Hall is alive with jollity tonight; the sounds of chatter and laughter bouncing between the high, stone walls to gather among the rafters. It’s long past the usual rush hour for dinner, and only a few people remain at the long wooden tables of the Hall. There are a few mages, each sitting alone, flipping casually through books or fidgeting with talismans as they shovel hungrily at their food. And there are several guards too, the ones whose patrol shifts prevent them from enjoying their evening meal at the usual hour. But despite the relative emptiness of the Hall, the small group gathered around Alistair is somehow proving more than capable of filling the enormous space with noise.

Alistair is sitting at the smaller table near the fireplace, Varric’s favourite spot in Skyhold for writing, and Alistair can see why the spot holds such appeal to his friend. It’s comfortable, the only table in the Great Hall to be surrounded by chairs rather than narrow benches, and the large fireplace provides welcome warmth to ward off the usual iciness of the Frostbacks. It’s also the ideal spot for people-watching, perfectly positioned to see anyone coming and going through the front entrance, but also the doors toward the library or the Chantry gardens.

Not that Alistair is doing much people-watching now, he’s too engrossed in conversation to pay any attention to whomever else is in the Great Hall (or the dirty looks being thrown at him and his companions by those who’d hoped for a quiet meal tonight).

Varric sits to his left, the flush of too many drinks giving his cheeks and the bridge of his nose a pinky glow, while Moira sits to his right. She’s out of her Templar armour for once, though she sits with the impeccable posture of someone unused to wearing casual clothes, and Alistair is astonished at how much _younger_ she looks when her usually stoic face is crumpled with laughter and ruddy with drink. She’d seemed much older when he’d first met her in the Frostbacks Basin, cold and commanding, and he’d been surprised to learn that she is in fact slightly younger than him. But he can see it now, with her rounded cheeks framed by an unruly mop of short, red curls. She looks so much more at ease, so much more carefree.

It’s the same with Harding. She’d been so authoritative, so efficient, while she’d barked orders to the rest of her scouting party in the Frostbacks. Now she’s snorting inelegantly at Varric’s outlandish stories while gleefully plucking at the impressive spread of food laid out before them, taking her pick of meat pies and bread rolls with nimble, sticky fingers. He supposes it’s inevitable; that everyone just becomes warmer and softer when in the safety and comfort of home.

And that’s what Skyhold is beginning to feel like, like _home_. His belly is full of food and wine, his face crinkled in laughter, and he’s surrounded by people, _good people_ , people he would gladly call friend.

There’s a loud clink as Varric clumsily puts the empty bottle down, most of the wine having thankfully found its way into everyone’s glasses rather than the tabletop, and the sound is loud enough to temporarily distract Varric from his story. He looks angrily at the bottle, upset at its impudence for having interrupted him, before gleefully returning to his tale, delighting in the rapt attention of his audience.

“So then Snowflake here manages to trip over this tree-root,” Varric says with a sharp nudge of his elbow into Alistair’s rib, “and he’s just… flailing on the ground like an idiot.”

“Hey!” Alistair objects with a childish cry, “I wasn’t _flailing_ , I was… providing a _masterful_ distraction.”

The assembled group laughs at Alistair’s surly interruption, as well as Varric’s exaggerated eye roll.

“If the flailing was intentional, why were you squealing like a nug?” Varric rejoins.

“It was all part of the ruse!” Alistair says, though the growing blush in his cheeks suggests that he finds this to be one of Varric’s more embarrassing tales and is only trying to recover some _tiny_ shred of dignity.

“Hah!” Varric bellows, “ruse my ass!” He takes a long swig of his drink, frowns when he sees the glass is already almost empty. “So now there’s this bandit – mean fella, ugly as sin – and he’s quickly approaching Alistair. And Alistair’s still scrambling around trying to get off the damn floor. So Hawke runs forward to save his sorry ass, about to cast a spell to uh… to _stun_ the bandit – but then _she_ falls over the _same_ _fucking tree-root_!”

There’s an uproarious roll of laughter from around the table accompanied by the enthusiastic pounding of fists against the pocked tabletop. Tales of Hawke’s shenanigans in Kirkwall have proven popular this evening, this one no exception, and Alistair has heard stories tonight of which _even he_ was unawares. It’s a nice way to ease the pain of her absence, though it only dulls the sharpest pangs. Hawke had parted ways with the Inquisition while Alistair was still trapped in the Fade, and while he’s already sent a letter to restart their former correspondence, he wishes dearly that she could be _here_ , in person, to share in the merriment.

Luckily, Varric is unlikely to run out of material to satisfy his hungry audience; he’s still only scratched the surface of the grand tales of the Champion. But as much as everyone loves hearing about Hawke _the Champion_ , the stories about her, well, _somewhat less heroic_ moments have proven even more popular this evening. Alistair can easily understand why; Varric’s books about the Champion are epic and exciting, painting Hawke as this larger-than-life figure. But in Alistair’s opinion, the truth is far more entertaining, more endearing. He barely recognises the Hawke in Varric’s books – but the woman Varric is describing now; _that’s_ his friend.

“So she trips over this root and her spell, well, _she misses_. So instead of hitting the bandit – _she hits Alistair_!”

Another roll of laughter, though this time Alistair doesn’t join in, merely twists his features into an exaggerated, childish sulk. He can remember the fight Varric is describing vividly and being on the receiving end of Hawke’s magic had certainly _not_ been funny.

“So what did you do about the bandits?” asks one of the wardens sitting around the table (and Alistair has had a bit too much drink to remember his name properly – and he has met _a lot_ of wardens in the last few days – but he’s _pretty sure_ it’s Roland… or maybe Rodney).

“What do you think? The rest of us had to deal with them – while Hawke and Alistair were flapping around on the ground like fish out of water. Some fucking Champion, right?” Varric’s laughing so much his words come out in quick bursts between each wheezing chuckle. “The best part, though, was _afterwards_.”

“They don’t want to know about what happened afterwards,” Alistair quickly chimes in with a vigorous shake of his head. From the eager nods of his companions, they clearly do.

“So – afterwards – I don’t know what was in that spell Hawke had cooked up but Alistair was high as a fucking kite. He _skipped_ all the way from the Wounded Coast back to Kirkwall, and then when we got him back to his room at the Hanged Man, he tied his sheets around his neck like… like a _cape_ – then _danced_ around his room declaring, ‘I am the mighty nug King, all shall look upon me and despair’!”

There’s another roll of laughter and Alistair is dismayed to hear that it may be the loudest, most amused yet.

“You know, I don’t remember that _at all_!” Alistair protests, frowning deeply at Varric and his laughing companions. “I really think you might be making it up!”

“You really think I would tell an exaggerated version of the truth just because I thought it made a better story?” Varric asks with feigned offence, clutching his hand to his heart in a mockery of innocence.

“Yes!” Alistair cries, “you do that all the bloody time!”

Varric’s chuckle is lost in his glass as he takes another long swig. “A magician never reveals his secrets.”

Alistair rolls his eyes and Varric nudges him in the ribs again in response. And then everyone’s laughing, Alistair included, and while it’s a little embarrassing to be reminded of the somewhat _less than auspicious_ start to his mercenary career, this moment is kind of… well… _perfect_. The sound of laughter, the circle of smiling faces around him; everything is exactly as it should be.

He’s reminded of the Blight, the last time he’d been in a similar situation, surrounded by a group of unexpected allies united through a common cause. And it had been _nice_ – travelling across Ferelden with a group of like-minded people, with _family_ – and at the time Alistair had believed himself to be the happiest that he’d ever been in his entire life. But it’s _better_ now – somehow – with the Inquisition. Because the group of people he’d travelled with during the Blight had been _Elissa’s_ allies – she’d chosen them and it was because of her that they’d stayed. But these people – Varric, Moira, Harding and everyone else he’d befriended since arriving at Skyhold – they were _his_ friends, people he’d met and come to know through _his own_ actions and _his own_ decisions.

Alistair is suddenly snapped from his thoughts by the sound of the main door creaking open laboriously and his head jerks up out of curiosity. He’s surprised that he even noticed the groaning sound, he’s barely noticed anyone coming and going all evening, but Varric has miraculously managed to produce yet another bottle of wine and there is a small lull in the conversation as he merrily tops up everyone’s glasses.

He’s glad that he _did_ look up though because it means he doesn’t miss it when Bron enters the Great Hall, doesn’t miss the way her lips quirk up into a small smile when she sees him staring at her. She’d promised that she’d come, as soon as she’d seen to a few other matters, and he’s been looking forward to this moment all evening. Bron’s company is the final piece that will make Alistair’s evening _complete perfection_.

Her smile only grows as she walks the short distance to his table and Alistair’s so mesmerised by the gentle curve of her lips that he almost doesn’t notice how _different_ she looks. Her hair is not in its usual neat braid, but instead falling down her back in a thick curtain of black that bobs jauntily from side-to-side as she walks. She’s wearing a _dress_ , of all things, in a pale violet colour and with a low-cut neckline revealing the delicate embroidering of the white shirt worn underneath. The dress stops just below her knees, exposing a pair of dainty leather slippers rather than the sturdy boots Alistair would have expected. Alistair has never seen Bron in anything other than completely practical footwear; these things seem more suited for _dancing_ than hiking.

_Dancing with Bron_ – now isn’t _that_ an enticing thought?

He stands as she nears and pushes gently but persistently at Moira’s shoulder. “Can you move aside?” he asks, “make some room for Bron?”

Moira sighs testily, though Alistair can tell from the subtle tilt of her smile that she’s not really annoyed, and she shifts her chair aside without complaint before grabbing one of the spare chairs from the table behind to offer to Bron.

Bron accepts the seat, smiling gratefully at Moira before casting Alistair a reproachful glare. _That was rude_.

Alistair simply shrugs in return; too pleased to have Bron sitting beside him to care about etiquette.

As Bron settles in her chair, Alistair grabs a relatively clean-looking plate from among those crowding their table and starts piling on food from the various platters littered around. He grabs a couple of pies, smothering them with ladles of gravy before picking out a couple of Bron’s favourite cheeses from the cheeseboard. The spread laid out before them is remarkable, and the kitchen staff have kept bringing new plates out even as the evening has stretched well passed the usual dinner-time. _For the hero_ , they’d said when he’d asked why he was the recipient of such unexpected generosity. That had made him blush, and even his usual technique of self-deprecating humour hadn’t been able to alleviate how awkward he’d felt.

And it’s not just the kitchen staff; people have been treating him strangely ever since he’d returned from the Fade. The word ‘hero’ has been used _a lot_ recently – for fighting at Adamant, for facing the Nightmare, for volunteering to stay behind in the Fade to allow the Inquisitor to escape, for carrying a dying Bron to safety. He’s not used to such attention – certainly hadn’t expected to be showered with the best foods the Inquisition has to offer and a few bottles from Varric’s private stash – but despite how uncomfortable it makes him feel, it also feels sort of _splendid_. It makes a nice change to feel so highly valued.

Alistair presents the plate to Bron with a theatrical _tada_ then watches with great satisfaction as she eagerly tucks in to the mountain of food. It’s nice to see that she’s got her appetite back. And it’s nice to see colour back in her cheeks too, and warmth back in her eyes. She’s made remarkable progress over the last week. After she’d awoken, she’d been insistent that she was fit enough to travel back to Skyhold and they’d left early the next day with Bron nestled safely on the scouting party’s cart. A few days later she’d been well enough to ride, though only for a few hours at a time. By the time they’d returned to Skyhold, Bron was almost back to her old self, though Steve was adamant that she had to report to him every day for a check-up (and though Bron smiled and dutifully attended every appointment he arranged for her, Alistair could tell that she just wanted to be left alone).

As if summoned by Alistair’s thoughts, Steve suddenly barrels through the main door of the Great Hall, eyes searching frantically across each table until at last coming to rest on Alistair’s. From the way his chest is heaving, and the disarray of his robes, it’s clear that he’s been running at quite a pace. He hurries the last few steps toward the table then delves his hand into the pocket of his robe before revealing a small bottle which he thrusts at Bron.

“You forgot this,” he says through desperate gasps of breath. “I made it just for you – my best potion yet! I mean, not the taste; that’s awful. But the _healing_ -“

“Thank you!” Bron snaps, keen to stop another one of Steve’s long-winded rambles before it can truly begin. She rises from her seat to accept the proffered bottle then frowns at the brownish-green tincture swirling inside as she sits back down again.

“You’re welcome!” he replies with a beaming smile then gives the assembled group an awkward little bow before turning to leave.

“Wait! Alistair cries, rising from his seat with such speed that the chair’s legs squeak loudly across the stone floor. “Where are you going?”

Steve turns back, face a little startled by Alistair’s sudden outcry. “I’m going back to the Mage’s Quarters. I’ll probably… read a book or something.”

“That won’t do!” Alistair bellows. “You have to join us! Varric,” he gives Varric a sharp poke on the shoulder, “get this man a drink!”

The young mage tries to stammer out a refusal but Alistair won’t hear it. “Nonsense – you saved my life! You saved Bron’s life as well! Come, _friend_ , will you do me the honour of having a drink with me?”

Steve’s surprise quickly melts away into a bright, pleased smile as the table responds to Alistair’s question with a resounding cheer, and there’s only the briefest moments of hesitation before he grabs a nearby chair and joins the circle of friends in their reverie. Varric hands him a glass and he gladly accepts it, holding the brim hesitantly against his lips for a moment before finally taking a tentative sip.

“To Steve!” Alistair shouts as he raises his glass, “one of the finest Mages I have ever met!”

The Great Hall is filled with a hearty chorus of ‘Steve’ followed by drunken, raucous laughter and Alistair notes with delight the way the young man’s cheeks are mottled with a bright, red blush. His expression is wide and open and Alistair recognises it at once because it’s the same expression that he’s been wearing a lot since joining the Inquisition – it’s the dazed expression of someone only now realising their worth.

Varric is quick to start up again with another one of his stories, this one, luckily, not involving Alistair making a fool of himself, and Alistair soon finds himself washed away by the gentle tides of conversation. After Varric has delivered his punchline, and the table has once more erupted into laughter, Harding joins in with her own story – something involving new recruits, bears, and a long, uncomfortable night spent up a tree – and then Moira with a few stories from the days of her Templar-training. Even Bron, normally tending toward quietness when in big, noisy groups, divulges a few stories of her own, delighting the audience with some of the more scandalous fiascos from her time in Orlais. 

There’s a comfortable rythem to the conversation, an easy pitter-patter as the assembled group of friends talks back-and-forth, passing the role of storyteller easily between them. He doesn’t want it to end, can’t think of anything he’d rather do than keep on talking, keep on sharing stories, until the first hints of gold and pink start to colour the morning sky. But then someone in the Great Hall starts to play the fiddle, at first a slow, sentimental song that is largely drowned out by the lively chatter of Alistair’s companions, but then something far more energetic and bouncing. The conversation stalls a little as the rapidly skipping tune proves harder to ignore and Alistair realises that perhaps – _just maybe_ – there might be something he’d rather do than talk.

Harding is the first to stand, pushing her chair back and tugging insistently at Varric’s sleeve until he relents to joining her in a dance. And Alistair is surprised to see his friend relent so _readily_ ; it may have been a few years since Alistair had last been in Kirkwall but he doesn’t remember Varric being much of a dancer. To be honest, Varric doesn’t seem like much of a dancer _now_. Either from too little practice or too much drink, the proper moves to match the fiddler’s tune seem to elude Varric and instead he and Harding cavort around the room in unsteady fits and starts, accompanied by their delighted shrills of laughter.

Next is Rodney (Roland?), dropping into a gentlemanly bow before proffering his hand to Moira. She rolls her eyes at his overly-formal offer but the smile on her face as she accepts it, and the bounce in her step as she walks toward the music, betrays her happiness at having been asked. Soon most of the table is on its feet, dancing to the music with varying levels of ability (but similarly high levels of enthusiasm).

Alistair, still in his seat, leans over to Bron. “Dance with me?” he asks, a hopeful lilt to his tone (and he’s not actually sure whether Bron even _likes_ to dance; though he sincerely hopes she does).

“Absolutely,” she replies warmly, turning her head to nudge her forehead against his.

He rises from his seat with a grin plastered across his face then holds his hand out for Bron’s. She readily accepts, placing her hand within his before rising elegantly from her seat and following Alistair toward the impromptu dancefloor.

Alistair will concede that he’s not the _most_ skilled of dancers. Of course he knows the steps to the most popular dances but he hasn’t really had the chance to practice. In fact, he doesn’t think he’s danced since the last time he visited Kirkwall and Isabella had given him something very suspicious to drink (which he, foolishly, had accepted) – and even that had been several years ago. Unsurprisingly, the life of an exiled bastard-King turned mercenary did not present itself with a surplus of dancing opportunities. But Alistair can move with surprising grace and control, the inevitable side-effect of being such a well-trained warrior, and as he pulls Bron closer, one hand holding hers while the other makes itself comfortable at the small of her back, there’s a smug smile in place to hide the jittering thrum of nerves. 

They fall into a waltz, lively and fast, and Alistair is at first very aware of his feet, eager not to burden poor Bron with _yet another_ injury. But he soon finds himself not caring about the proper steps, or counting the beats, or anything else really as his attention is held solely by the expression on Bron’s face. There’s a broad smile on her lips, an unusual softness in her eyes, and she’s wearing the kind of unguarded expression that he imagines few ever get to see.

He’s suddenly reminded of just how fucking lucky he is.

How lucky he is to have met such an extraordinary woman. How lucky he is to have fallen in love with her, to have proven himself worthy of her affection in return. There are so many paths their lives could have taken, so many decisions he could have made differently, and it seems like such an astonishing twist of fate that they should have found themselves together in such a way.

When the fiddler reaches the end of his song, the dancers give him a well-deserved round of applause, shouting their praises while simultaneously bombarding the unfortunate man with a variety of requests for the next song.

Alistair doesn’t hear any of this, too focused on the woman in his arms. She looks _beautiful_ – her skin shining with a golden sheen in the candlelight, her eyes bright and alert with exertion, her mouth twisted into a crooked, lazy smile. The wine has stained her lips a deep crimson and he finds himself suddenly curious as to whether her lips now hold the same oaky, sweet taste as the wine.

He leans closer, curving his body around hers as he dips forward for a quick taste. His mouth is a mere whisper away from hers when she abruptly turns her head, causing him to miss her lips and press a clumsy kiss against her cheek instead.

“Not here,” she gently admonishes, shaking her head to show her disapproval though smiling to show that he’s not caused any genuine offence. “Not where people are watching.”

He’s pretty sure that no one is watching; they’re all far too consumed with their own dancing and laughing and general drunken frivolity. But he doesn’t want to do anything that makes Bron uncomfortable so he simply nods in understanding.

“Where then?” he asks, waggling his eyebrows provocatively.

She hesitates for a moment, and Alistair feels a flash of panic when he thinks that maybe he’s crossed some sort of line (maybe the eyebrow waggling was _a bit much_ ). But his panic is quickly relieved when she leans a little closer, pressing her hips against his in what he’s _sure_ is a purposeful gesture, and whispers in his ear, “how about my room?”

He might be imagining it but her voice sounds a little huskier than normal. And her eyes seem a little darker than normal but he might be imagining that too.

Actually – he’s imagined a _lot of things_ during their many months of travel together. He’s imagined what it feels like to card his fingers through long, silky hair, to watch the black strands fall against the naked expanse of her back. He’s imagined what it’s like to feel her calloused palms slide down his chest, to feel her hot mouth press against his flushed skin, her legs tighten around his hips.

To be honest, he’s thought about her, about _that_ , a lot. Not to creepy excess (he hopes) but certainly… enough. After all, they’ve been travelling together for a _really_ long time, often in _excessively_ close quarters (and it’s not _his_ fault that Bron always insisted that they shared a room; more cost-efficient that way apparently).

“Your room?” he asks, just to be sure he heard her correctly, and it’s a little embarrassing how his voice cracks as he speaks.

She nods, peering up at him coyly through her eyelashes.

“Well… good,” he says, though ‘good’ doesn’t really convey the full gamut of emotions he’s feeling. He’s excited, of course, thrilled and needy but also… _somewhat_ terrified. Actually, _very_ terrified. Although it’s not the same terror he felt before, the terror he felt with Elissa. That terror had been borne from inexperience (which has since been remedied by a number of women he’d met during his exile). Whereas this terror is borne from hope. Hope that this relationship – _this one_ – is made to last. He may not be the same blushing boy he was during the Blight but _this is Bron_ – and _this is important_ – and he’s terrified because he _really_ doesn’t want to fuck this up.

He hides his fear behind a smirk, a cheeky curl to his lips that fills his eyes with humour. “Because, actually, I’ve long been curious as to which of us has the better room. You know, I don’t even have a mountain view! My room overlooks the stables and while I’m a big fan of horses, the smell-”

“Shut up, you fool,” she mutters with a wearied shake of her head, swatting him playfully with the back of her hand.

And he’s heard that before – _fool_ – normally spoken with such cruel glee, the word forced out between clenched teeth. And yet when Bron says it, she somehow makes it sound strangely fond.

She steps back, looking at him with the kind of expression that makes his spine tingle, her eyes hooded, her lips curled with a smirk of her own. When she turns to stride out of the Great Hall, Alistair almost trips over his feet to follow, focusing only on her retreating back and not paying attention as to whether any of their companions note their departure.

Her hips sway as she walks, the muscles in her calves flexing with each confident step, and Alistair can’t help but wonder just _how far_ it is to Bron’s bedroom. There’s something strangely enticing about her movements, careful and precise, like a well-trained dancer in perfect control over every muscle. He can’t help but wonder what it would take to unravel that control. Would her back quiver if he swept his fingertips down her spine? Would her knees buckle if he kissed her at the juncture of her thighs? He can feel his fingertips tingling – so desperate to reach out and touch-

_No_ , he reminds himself, _he has to wait_. All he has to do is wait. All he has to do is wait _until they reach her room_.

They make it as far as the corridor.

When the door shuts behind them and Alistair finds himself in the relative privacy of the hallway, the raucous sounds of the Great Hall suddenly made muted and distant, he can’t help but step a little closer, placing one hand on Bron’s hip as he leans forward to whisper into her ear, “you know, there’s no one here.”

She chuckles softly, and he can feel her hair tickling against his cheek as she gently shakes her head.

“You’re incorrigible,” she mutters, and he’s not entirely sure he knows what that means but she says it with such affection that he assumes it’s a good thing.

“So does that -?”

She suddenly turns on him, wrapping her fists into the collar of his tunic to pull his head down to her height. Her expression is fiery, her eyes alight and playful, and Alistair can’t help but feel something stirring, hard and wanting, at her sudden fierceness.

“One kiss, you get _one kiss_ ,” she says before pushing her lips against his.

The kiss is hot and firm and insistent, a bolt of fire as her lips sear against his skin. Her fingers are still curled into the fabric of his tunic, holding him close, keeping him near enough that he can feel the heat of her body, smell the delicate lilac of her freshly-washed hair. He raises his hands, cupping her cheeks so he can tilt her head back, giving him the perfect angle to deepen the kiss.

She really does taste like wine, dark and rich, though _sweeter_ , because it’s Bron.

He’s forced to break the kiss to take a few raggedy gulps of air, their breaths mingling as their lips stay tantalisingly close to each other. “If I only get one kiss,” he murmurs, his low voice causing the air to vibrate in the narrow space between them, “I better make it worth it.”

With a growl he pushes back against her shoulders, pinning Bron against the wall with a dull thud. She lets out a breathy gasp as her back hits stone then breaks into a feral smile, crooked and delighted, before reaching out again to grab fistfuls of his tunic and pull him in close. He wastes no time, darting forward to capture her mouth once more, teasing against her lips with his tongue until she opens her mouth with a needy moan.

His forearms are braced against the wall on either side of Bron’s head, boxing her in as if shielding her from the world. His arms create a private space, a small window of intimacy that just the two of them can see.

She gives a slow, pointed roll of her hips and Alistair can’t help but groan in response, feeling her smile against his lips.

Suddenly there’s a clatter and a roar of cheers from the other side of the nearby door and Bron suddenly breaks the kiss, ducking under his arms to escape his reach. They both jump apart – like misbehaving children who’ve just been caught by their schoolmaster, faces flushed and clothes dishevelled – but there’s no one there. The corridor is still empty, only the sound of their drunken friends in the Great Hall permeating through the door to fill the corridor with the muffled sounds of revelry. How easy it would have been for one of their friends to catch them, to choose that moment to leave the Great Hall and find the two of them locked together so indecorously.

It’s a bit of a thrill really, and Alistair can feel a pleased tingling at the base of his spine.

Bron is smiling, her face roaring pink with blush, and then she’s giggling, and then she reaches out to beckon him closer, entangling her fingers with his when he offers her his hand.

“Come on,” she says, giving his arm a sharp tug, “my room’s this way.”

It’s not enough, this one kiss. It’s only given him a taster and now he wants so much more. He wants to feel that warmth again, to feel the smell of her fill his nostrils, to feel that sweet richness on the tip of his tongue. But Bron had been adamant; _only one kiss_.

Bron is quickly proven wrong.

There’s the tender kiss she brushes against his knuckles as they slink through Skyhold’s corridors. There’s the wet, sloppy kisses she presses along his neck as they stumble up the staircase. There’s the tender, lingering kiss she gives him when they reach the landing, their bodies pressed so close together that Alistair thinks they might melt into one.

By the time they reach Bron’s room, they’re both panting with want, Alistair’s skin burning at every spot where Bron has pressed her lips.

She fumbles a little with the key, her hands shaking with either nerves or excitement as she clumsily fiddles with the lock. Alistair almost growls with frustration until he finally hears a light click and the door swings lazily open.

Alistair wastes no time, pushing Bron through the door and banging it shut behind them. He’s only just pulled the latch shut again when Bron is on him, wrapping her arms around his neck as she presses her mouth to his lips in hot, open-mouthed kisses. He reciprocates in kind, one hand between her shoulder blades and the other at the curve of her back to hold her tightly against him as he tastes and teases with teeth and tongue.

Moonlight is streaming through the window, painting the room in soft shades of grey and violet, while the smoldering embers of a residual fire cast a faint semi-circle of orange across the floor. Alistair spots the bed on the opposite side of the room (a much larger bed than his own, he notes dimly) and starts angling Bron toward it, their feet fumbling as their entwined legs struggle to manoeuvre. But then he sees a rather plush-looking chaise-long next to the fire and while the bed certainly has the advantage of size, the chaise has the advantage of proximity.

Alistair’s mind is still debating between the bed and the chaise-long when he suddenly notices the selection of tasteful paintings on the walls, the rich brocade hanging at the window, and the rather magnificent view out over the Frostbacks.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he exclaims, the word coming out muffled against Bron’s lips, “your room is _much better_ than mine!”

Bron’s head jerks up sharply and she looks at him with a mix of bemusement and a touch of frustration. One brow is arched sharply, her nose crinkled in confusion, and she glares at him balefully for a moment before her lips twist into an amused smirk.

“Josephine must like me a lot more than you,” she teases, then dips her head to feather a string of kisses along his jaw.

“That can’t be true,” he retorts, and there’s a hitch in his voice when he feels Bron’s nimble fingers start to unbutton the front of his tunic. “I don’t know whether you’ve noticed but I am, in fact, _delightful_.”

“Is that so?” she asks with a chuckle before leaning forward to press her lips to his chest, a gentle, lingering kiss for each patch of skin exposed by each button she pops open.

“Absolutely,” he says, amazed that he’s able to keep his voice so even under Bron’s ministrations. “I have a sharp, rapier wit; a folksy, down-to-earth charm; excellent dinner conversatio-” his words are lost to a moan as Bron’s fingers run out of buttons and ghost along the bulge in Alistair’s trousers instead. His body shudders involuntarily, a curling, coiling feeling from his head to his toes. There’s a burning sensation along his skin, a tingling trail where Bron has kissed a path down his chest.

She lets out a puff of laughter, stretching her body against his as her hand strokes him through the fabric of his trousers. “Any other _fine_ qualities I should be aware of?” she asks huskily.

He can’t help but smirk; she’s given him far too good of an opening to resist. “I am _void-shatteringly_ good in bed,” he answers with a playful wink, his smirk broadening into a cheeky, boyish grin.

He expects her to laugh and roll her eyes. Instead she leans her head closer and whispers in his ear, “ _prove it_.”

Alistair is happy to oblige, bringing his hands up to cup her face as he leans in for a fierce, punishing kiss. He’d wanted to be forceful but _controlled_ – he’d wanted to tempt her and tease her with finesse – but every time Bron’s hand brushes against his crotch, he loses a bit more of his composure, and the kiss ends up clumsy and wet, open mouths rushing together in a tangle of lips and tongue and teeth.

The room is beginning to feel hotter, though the fireplace still only burns with the dim glow of dying embers, and Alistair is suddenly very aware that they are both wearing _far too many clothes_. Bron has successfully unbuttoned his tunic but the garment still hangs gaping from his shoulders and Bron is (shamefully) still fully-dressed.

He drops his hands from her face to her back, his fingers tugging clumsily at the laces of Bron’s dress until it’s loose enough for Bron to wriggle her arms free. When the dress hits the floor, the fabric pooling in a halo around her slippered feet, he lifts up her shirt, which slips easily over her head, disappearing into the shadows as Alistair tosses it into a corner.

Bron now stands before him in only her smallclothes, the shafts of moonlight brushing stripes of silver across her body, highlighting each curve and plane of the thick muscles beneath her skin.

_Maker, she is beautiful_.

She’s smiling at him softly, entirely at ease under his wandering gaze, and when he catches her eye, she gives him a rather pointed glare, nodding her head to the side. _Your turn_.

He quickly shrugs out of his tunic then bows his head so that he can make quick work of the laces at the front of his trousers, keen to be free of the restrictive material as quickly as possible. When the laces are free, Bron’s hands join his, pulling down his trousers and smallclothes together until he’s completely bare. When he looks up, she’s bare too, having slipped out of her own smallclothes while he’d been tugging at his laces.

For a moment they both just stand and stare, appraising each other, though not in judgement but in appreciation. This time Alistair can’t help but vocalise his thoughts. “You are…” he pauses, lost for words, “ _incredible_ ,” he finally adds, pleased to see a small blush spread prettily across her cheeks.

She steps forward, placing her hands on his chest as she leans forward for a kiss. Their previous kisses had been hot and fierce but _this one_ ; this one is tender, _loving_ , though no less intense. He lifts one hand to clutch a fistful of hair at the nape of her neck while the other drifts lazily down her body, skirting around the curve of one breast before caressing gently along her waist and coming to rest at the hollow of her back, fingers stroking tentatively above the swell of her bum.

He trails a path of kisses across her face, lips whispering across her cheekbones then down the sharp edge of her jaw. When he nips at the soft flesh beneath her ear she shudders, and he can feel it quivering all the way down her spine. 

His grip in her hair loosens and then both hands are sweeping down to cup her below her bum before lifting her with remarkable ease, holding her against him. Bron doesn’t need any prompting, wrapping her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck, clinging onto him for support. He carries her to the bed, placing her gently on top of the covers with a fan of pillows against her back.

With her body stretched enticingly below him, Alistair gives himself over to exploration, determined to understand every dip and curve of Bron’s body. He starts off gently, palms skimming lightly, almost shyly, over her skin before he starts touching her with firmer, rougher strokes, fingertips pressing firmly into flesh as he scatters feathery kisses along her collarbone to the hollow of her throat.

One of his hands sweeps down her torso, stroking teasingly at the cleft between her thighs before pushing two thick, calloused fingers between her slick, yielding folds. She sucks in a sharp breath, her whole body tensing and back arching so that her breasts press against his chest. He smirks against her neck, delighting in the intensity of her reaction, at the feel of her body curving taut as a bow beneath him. With strong fingers he strokes against soft flesh and Bron releases her breath in a shuddering gasp that turns into a loud, unguarded moan as he curls his fingers inside of her.

He’d assumed she’d be quiet. That in this, like in all things, Bron would remain stoically silent.

He is immensely pleased to be proven wrong.

One of her hands is gripping white-knuckled at the bedsheets while the other is tugging almost painfully at his hair, her fist buried into the blonde curls just behind his ear. Her moans turn into needy little mewls when he adds another finger, then breathy little gasps as his thumb strokes at _just_ the right spot, and then her body is suddenly wracked with a shuddering spasm and he thinks he can hear his name among her cries. He coos soothingly as her body judders with the last dwindling tremors, removing his fingers and stroking gently against her thigh instead.

Her body is soft and pliant beneath him, her head rolling back on the pillows as she pants desperately to regain her breath.

Alistair has never seen Bron this undone and he can’t help but feel somewhat (well – _very_ ) smug.

When she finally opens her eyes and focuses her gaze on him, he can see a world of feelings reflected there. There’s affection, and satisfaction (thank the Maker), but also a burning, blistering spark that makes Alistair throb with want, already so hard and willing from every teasing kiss and every tantalising caress.

“Alistair,” she murmurs between panting breaths.

“Yes?”

She hooks a leg around his waist, digging her heel into his bum as she shifts her hips. “I need you to-“

“Yes.”

He doesn’t need her to finish her sentence; he can see the neediness in her eyes, feel her body thrum with anticipation beneath him.

He brings one hand to cradle the back of her head, his forearm braced against the mattress to hold his weight above her. The other hand rakes along the leg that she’s crooked around his waist, fingers digging into the soft, plump flesh of her thigh.

He ducks his head down for a kiss, another one of those long, lingering kisses that draws the breath away, slow and deep and thoughtful, and then he rolls his hips forward and Bron gasps into his mouth as he slides inside of her, their bodies finally enjoined. There’s a pause, a fleeting moment of stillness as their laboured breaths mingle in the narrow space between them, Alistair’s eyes locked onto Bron’s face so that he can memorise every detail of this moment.

And then she snaps her hips forward, an invocation for him to move, and Alistair can’t help the strangled moan that’s pulled from his throat as he makes that first, slow thrust inside of her, then another, and another, building up a rythem, firm and steady, each thrust of his hips matched by a roll of Bron’s.

It’s not how he imagined it would be. It’s _better_ – because it’s real. But it’s also, just, _different_. Bron is stronger than he imagined, taut muscles stretched beneath smooth skin, her grip strong and insistent as she holds onto him. And she’s more assertive, rocking her hips to set the pace, leading his hand to touch her just where she wants to be touched. He’s happy to comply; happy to do whatever it takes to coax out those breathy little moans, those needy little mewls.

He leans forward to run his tongue along her collarbone, then down, kissing and licking a path to her nipple. She hisses as he licks at her breast, first one and then the other, her fingernails digging into his back as she holds onto him.

The pace had started slow and steady, each thrust measured and deliberate, but the pace has quickened, each snap of his hips coming faster and faster as he feels the coiling heat inside of him grow. A wild, thrumming flare surges through his limbs, building in intensity until every nerve ending throbs with crackling fire. His pace becomes frantic, the room filled with the sound of snapping hips and the smack of skin against skin.

“Alistair,” Bron breathes, faint and airy and so, _so_ close to the edge, and Alistair rocks a little harder, a little fiercer, until her body suddenly snaps, every muscle turning taut, her back arching from the bed as a deep, husky cry surrounds him.

He can feel the waves of sensation rippling through Bron’s body, igniting his already fraught nerves, and he gives a few final pumps before there’s a crackle of fire – a searing heat followed by his own trembling release – and then Alistair is groaning with relief as ripples of pleasure sooth the burning of each nerve.

When the tingling finally subsides, the heady roar fading into a dull glow and then a cool relief, Alistair presses his forehead to Bron’s. He can feel the heat radiating from her, the stickiness of her sweat-slicked skin. Then he kisses her, a little clumsily, only just catching the corner of her mouth, and she hums, sated, against his lips.

He rolls off of her with a groan, careful not to crush her as his body falls spent atop the bedsheets. He’s hot, _so hot_ , the coolness of the air giving a glad relief, and he waits a few moments for his body to cool down before seeking out Bron.

His eyes are closed, his eyelids suddenly feeling heavy with exertion, and he reaches out blindly to find her. His fingers skim against the outside of her hip and Bron’s skin must still be feeling sensitive because she lets out a surprised _oh_ as he brushes against her. His hand travels from her hip across her stomach and then to her waist, fingertips drawing a meandering path across sweaty, sticky skin. When his hand finally comes to rest, she places one of her own on top of it, her thumb stroking gently back-and-forth across his knuckles.

Once their breathing has finally steadied, a comfortable silence falls gently over the room, a cloak of stillness to match the muted greys as the moonlight gives everything a dull, silvery sheen.

Alistair had thought his evening perfect before. When it was just him and his friends in the Great Hall, when he had food and laughter and unprecedented access to Varric’s personal wine collection. And then Bron had arrived, with her shining smile and her violet dress and Alistair had thought that _that_ was perfection; that nothing could possibly make his evening better.

And now Bron lies naked beside him, her body limp from exertion and her eyes hooded with pleasure. His muscles are exhausted, his skin clammy, but he also feels a comfortable drowsiness, the cozy contentment of feeling utterly satiated. She turns her head to look at him, and she smiles, tired and happy and blisteringly beautiful, and her eyes are filled with such naked affection and happiness that Alistair feels his breath snatched away once more.

And he was wrong before; this – _this_ is perfection.

* * *

Morning light is creeping over the Frostbacks, soft fingers of pink and violet cresting over the mountains and banishing the inky blackness of night. The colours seem to blur and run onto the white-capped peaks, daubing the icy canvas with a rainbow of warm pastel hues.

Alistair had been right last night. Bron really does have one of the nicest rooms in Skyhold; it’s spectacular view being just one of its perks. She’d been given the room because she’s Leliana’s second, and one of the Inquisition’s first members, having been a part of the movement before the Inquisition had even been declared. She even pre-dates Josephine’s recruitment, and while most people pay Bron little attention – assuming she is just another one of Leliana’s spies and in all ways unremarkable – Josephine seems to hold her in special regard, recognising Bron’s unique relationship with Leliana and her years of loyal service.

The room is still mostly dark, last night’s shadows still lurking in the corners, but beams of soft light have managed to stretch over the rug and across the bed, giving warmth to bare limbs left exposed to the chill morning air. Bron is lying on the side of the bed farthest from the window, her body stretched lazily over the sheets, head propped up on a pile of pillows, while Alistair is sprawled on his belly at her side.

She’s staring at him (though she would deny that was the case should someone ask), eyes drifting from broad shoulders down to the muscled expanse of his bare back, hungrily admiring each toned limb tossed haphazardly across her bed. The shafts of pastel-coloured light seem to add definition to every cord of muscle, every dip and curve of his body. There’s a strip of gold hugging his spine, a fan of yellow against his shoulder blades, and a blossom of soft pink across the round swell of his bum, as if it’s blushing from embarrassment.

_Maker, Alistair really does have a splendid bum_. 

“What are you doing?” he asks, his voice drowsy but content as he cranes his head up from the mattress to look at her. She hadn’t realised that he was awake but it’s clear from the pleased grin on his face that he’s been awake for some time and knows exactly what she’s been doing.

“Admiring your backside,” she answers with her usual candour, deciding that a lie would be pointless now when he’s so clearly caught her staring.

His smile somehow broadens. “Then by all means, carry on.”

She chuckles softly, rolling her eyes and scrunching her nose in feigned annoyance at his smug tone. 

And it’s not like Alistair isn’t doing his own fair share of staring. She can see him watching her, _feel_ his gaze as it casts across her skin, his eyes falling from her face to her breasts and then down to the smooth planes of her stomach. His grin has softened into something lazier, something easy and pleased as he lets his eyes wander, eyes that are so open with admiration that Bron can scarcely look at them.

Then his eyes fall upon the jagged scar across her stomach and his face stiffens, the smile wavering and falling until his lips are pulled into a pursed frown.

She can understand the feeling; the scar upsets her too. It’s such an ugly thing, red and angry and puckered. Steve had told her that it would likely remain until the end of her days. It would soften, most likely, and fade, but the raised line of tissue would remain, a constant reminder of just how close she was to death.

She hates it; she hates that she will never be rid of it.

And it’s not that Bron is a vain woman, _she’s not_ , but because it’s an indelible reminder of her failure. Bron’s been injured before – many, many times before – but never seriously, never in a way that would leave a permanent mark. Bron is in fact very proud of her record in largely _avoiding_ battles, succeeding in her missions through coercion and subterfuge rather than belligerence. And when she _does_ get into fights, Bron is very proud of her record in largely _winning_ battles. The scar is an unsightly blot on that record and one that she would rather be rid of.

“I hate it,” she murmurs, largely to herself, and she keeps her eyes on the scar even as Alistair jerks his head up to look at her.

“I hate that you were hurt,” he says, then lifts his hand to run his fingertips along the raised line of bumps, “but _this_ … this isn’t so bad. I have far worse.”

He’s right, of course. Alistair’s skin is a web of scars, some old and long-healed, some far fresher, standing pink and persistent against the dark golden tone of his skin. And Bron doesn’t mind the scars on his skin (though her heart aches for how one man could endure so much punishment) – they don’t look like failure when they’re on Alistair’s skin, only her own.

She knows that it makes no sense. She knows that she’s just punishing herself for failing to live up to an impossible standard. But that doesn’t stop the sharp, yanking feeling at the pit of her stomach every time she sees that little angry line of furrowed skin.

“I hate it,” she says again, then sighs with frustration, “I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have let myself get stabbed.”

“No one _lets_ themselves get stabbed,” he says, fingers still ghosting gently along the slightly curving scar, “stabbings just _happen_.”

“It shouldn’t have happened,” she grouses petulantly, stubbornly refusing to let Alistair’s words cheer her up. “If I’d been _stronger_ , if I’d _seen_ the demon, if – it shouldn’t have happened.”

“No it shouldn’t have happened,” he says, and while Alistair’s voice had been soft before, attempting to soothe, there’s now a strange determination in his tone. “You shouldn’t have been stabbed by a demon. You shouldn’t have even been in the Fade. You should have _left me to die_ and left with the Inquisitor to safety. But instead you stayed – because you’re an incredible, selfless, _ridiculous_ woman – and then you got hurt. _Hurt badly_. Because you did a wonderful thing to save someone who certainly would have died otherwise. You are not weak because you have this scar; this scar _proves_ how strong you are.”

Bron’s heart is doing this strange flippity-flapping thing and she marvels at how Alistair always seems to find the words that are – _just right_.

“You are wonderful,” she says.

“I know,” he retorts smugly, “I told you last night, remember?”

“Ah yes – your rapier wit and folksy down-to-earth charm.”

“Exactly.”

They laugh, and the sound pushes out into the room, vanquishing the melancholy thoughts like the morning sun banishing the shadows from the corners of the room.

Alistair is still running his fingertips across her skin, tracing idle patterns along her stomach as he runs his fingers down her scar then around her belly-button. He pulls his fingers between her freckles, connecting them all dot-to-dot, and Bron wonders whether the movement is just random or whether he’s drawing imaginary constellations across her stomach.

It’s peaceful, she thinks, this quiet moment, just the two of them, no one speaking but just… _enjoying_ the nearness of each other. And she knows it will be far too fleeting – that the memory will turn into just a brief snapshot amongst a million other little moments in time.

Bron thinks idly that they should move. The sun is now peering above the mountaintops, drenching the stables and the training yard in a startling, vivid white, and Bron can already hear the familiar sounds of Skyhold as the fortress begins to awaken. There’s the creak of wood and the rustle of fabric as the merchants set up their stalls for the day, and the whinnying of horses as Dennet and his stable-hands start the morning feeding.

Yes, they probably should move. Except Bron’s body would really rather stay sprawled in bed, heavy and happy. Her limbs are exhausted from last night’s exertions, first the dancing and then… everything else. They’d only slept in fits and starts, waking up to press feverish kisses to drowsy lips, to sweep curious hands over tantalising expanses of flesh. The night had not seemed long enough and sleep had just seemed like a waste.

Now they are sated and spent and just… too fucking tired.

So – no – she’s not moving. Not for anything. Not even if Corypheus himself came knocking on the door of Skyhold’s Great Hall. He’d just have to _wait_. Because Bron won’t let _anything_ ruin this perfect moment.

Well… anything, except for one tiny, niggling question.

Something’s been bothering her since the Fade, something which she can’t seem to get out of her mind. And at first she’d been able to concentrate on her injuries, focus on getting better, on _healing_ – except she’s better now and she can’t put it off any longer. _She needs to know_.

“Alistair?” she asks, and her voice is small and tentative, anxious in case what she says next somehow ruins this perfect, peaceful moment.

He hums in response, _hmm?_

“Back in the Fade, when I…ugh – when I…”

“Tried to kill me?”

“Yes… _that_ …”

He smiles, playful and crooked, eyes alight with unexpected humour – she’s never going to live that down.

“You said…” she pauses, steels herself, tries again, “you said you loved me.”

She can feel Alistair stiffen, his fingers stopping in their lazy circuit between her freckles. She wishes she was better at reading people (though she’s better at reading Alistair than other people), wishes she could understand what that tension signals. Maybe he’d said it in error? Maybe it was just a ruse to break her from the demon’s thrall? In that case, he probably hopes she hadn’t heard.

But she _had_ heard, and now she needs to know.

“Did you… did you mean it?” she asks.

He jerks his head up to glare at her reproachfully, clearly affronted by what he considers to be a preposterous question.

“ _Of course_ I meant it,” he says, “I _still_ mean it.” The hand that had been brushing along her stomach now rises to cup her cheek, holding her face in place so she has no choice except to look at him. “Bron, _I love you_. I love you more than I have ever loved another living being in my entire life. I love you so much… it fucking _astounds_ me.”

“Oh,” she murmurs, and even _she_ can tell that it’s a thoroughly underwhelming response. Alistair, remarkably, does not look disappointed or angry (though she would not blame him if he did), only content and calm, staring at her with a level of affection she’s not sure she deserves.

She knows she’s supposed to say something back; she’s supposed to match Alistair’s words with a love declaration of her own. And she knows that she _does_ care for him – _so fucking much_ – but is it love? How would she know if it was?

Sure, she thinks of him all the time, misses him when he’s not around. She aches when she thinks of something happening to him, hurts when she thinks of losing him for good. His smile immediately brightens her day, his words magically banish all of her doubts and fears. When he’s near her, she feels stronger, she feels like she’s a better version of herself. He doesn’t even need to touch her, doesn’t even need to say anything, just his presence alone makes her feel like she could walk through life without ever faltering.

_Shit_ – that seems an awful lot like love.

“Well… I-” she pauses, hesitates, her thoughts still so loud in her head that she can barely concentrate on summoning words.

“No,” he interrupts, shaking his head while a gentle smile plays at his lips. “You don’t have to say it back. Not now – just… when you’re ready. I can wait.” 

Her heart does that flippity-flapping thing again and her own smile spreads from cheek-to-cheek. He’s letting her wait; letting her wait until she’s _absolutely sure_. And it’s such a small thing – but such a glorious thing – to feel freed from expectations, to not have to worry about what she’s _supposed_ to do but rather what feels right for her.

Bron has never been in love before but she’s _pretty sure_ that this is it. _This is love_. And now she’ll wait, until she’s _absolutely certain_ , because these things, once they’ve been said, can’t be unsaid. And she doesn’t want to say anything that she’ll just have to take back later – doesn’t want to say anything unless she means it for forever.

So she’ll wait until it’s right – _just a little longer_ – and she knows that Alistair will be right there waiting for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	21. Coming Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it, guys! The final chapter!
> 
> I wanted this chapter to be a sort of mirror to the first chapter - so some phrases and images have been borrowed to link them together narratively. I thought that by comparing the first and last chapters so directly, it would really highlight just how much has changed in the time since Bron and Alistair first met.
> 
> This is grotesquely fluffy - which is exactly how I like to end my fics.

A few heads turn when she enters the Great Hall, casting curious glances her way before returning their attentions to their meals or their books or their companions. The Hall is busier than she would have expected for such a late hour, the sound of boisterous laughter rolling through the air like a wave, ebbing and flowing with the tide of conversation. From the looks of things, it appears that a unit of the Commander’s soldiers has just returned from a mission, the long tables of the Hall flanked with people sporting the distinctive green uniforms of the Inquisition army, and they all seem keen to indulge in some lively conversation and a hearty meal (and Bron of all people can appreciate the wonders of a good meal after months and months on the road with only dried meats and stale bread for sustenance).

She stomps her boots against the flagstones to kick off the dust and dirt from the soles of her boots then throws Varric a small, friendly wave before stepping briskly across the Hall with long, confident strides. Normally she’d stop for a chat, always eager to catch up on what she’d missed while away on a mission (and Varric is usually the best source of information for Inquisition-wide gossip – him or Josephine), but Varric seems busy today, his head bowed over an ink-stained page of parchment and his brows knit in concentration, and Bron is loath to disturb him when he’s writing. And besides, Bron is tired and she’s hungry, her homeward journey having taken far longer than she’d expected, and right now she’s more interested in a meal and a bed than she is in the goings-on of Skyhold.

At the far end of the Great Hall is the doorway into the Skyhold kitchens and when she ducks inside, she is immediately hit with the delicious smell of something warm and spicy. She takes a deep, greedy sniff – lets the rich, slightly sweet smell fill her nostrils. 

No one notices Bron at first, unsurprising given the frisson of frantic activity typical to the Skyhold kitchens, and Bron stands and watches a while as the cooks, maids and porters head about their business. One of the cooks stirs something in a massive copper pot perched on the hearth (which Bron suspects is the source of the incredible smell) while a pair of kitchen maids roll out sheets of pastry across the wooden-topped table at the centre of the room. At the far end of the room, someone appears to be preparing vegetables to be pickled and next to him is a young girl scrubbing viciously at potatoes with a wiry brush. It’s quite pleasant, Bron thinks, this thrum of domestic activity after so much time spent alone on the road, and she’s so entranced by the bevy of activity around her that she doesn’t notice at first when one of the kitchen maids looks up from her sheet of pastry to talk to her.

“Miss, miss… _miss_!” the maid repeats, her voice growing in volume.

Bron starts when she realises that she’s being spoken to, a faint surge of pink colouring her cheeks, and she smiles at the young woman apologetically for having been too distracted to hear her.

“Sorry,” Bron stammers, “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I was just hoping to grab something.”

The maid nods and smiles, wiping her floury hands on her apron as she steps back from the table and walks toward Bron.

“If you take a seat in the Hall, we can bring you some stew… maybe some pie or some broth with bread?”

Bron shakes her head. “Nothing so elaborate – I’m heading to bed soon. I just wanted something light.”

The maid nods in understanding, although she looks a little disappointed (perhaps upset that Bron did not want to try one of her culinary creations), and it takes only a few moments for her to grab a small wooden plate and pile it up with a generous amount of bread, cheese and fruit.

She offers the plate to Bron with a beaming smile, and Bron reciprocates with her own, far more cautious smile in return as she takes the proffered plate. It’s been a long time since she left Skyhold, nearly a month on a mission on her own, and she’s a little out of practice with the smiling.

Bron’s been putting in a concerted effort recently to be friendly, to smile and chat and listen with interest to people’s idle prattle. It had been Alistair’s idea; he thought it would help her make more friends at Skyhold (not that Bron thought she needed more friends – but Harding and Leliana had both agreed with Alistair and Bron had found herself outnumbered).

She knows that she’ll never be like Alistair or Varric or Hawke, people whose natural charisma and warmth just seemed to draw people to them. But the events of the last few months – the total devastation she’d felt when she’d thought the Inquisition lost at Haven, the isolation and fear she’d felt when trapped in the Fade – have made her realise _just how much_ she relies on the support and kindness of other people. Without Alistair – without Hawke and Eleri and Harding – she never would have survived.

She supposes a few extra friends couldn’t hurt.

The maid gives her a polite nod before returning to her previous position at the table and Bron turns to make a quick exit, not wanting to be any further imposition on the kitchen staff.

With the precious plate of food in hand, Bron weaves quickly through the labyrinthine corridors and hallways of Skyhold, eager to reach the sanctuary of a comfy chair and a warm fireplace. The journey home had been difficult – flooding around Gherlen’s Pass had forced her to turn west toward Orzammar, and she’d had to travel the more difficult, mountainous routes to finally reach Skyhold. Now her limbs are stiff from riding, her skin red and raw from the biting winds of the Frostbacks, and she’s tired beyond belief from successive nights of camping.

She knows she should probably be seeking out Leliana rather than bed. Her mission, though successful, had been eventful and Leliana will want a full debrief. The Venatori spies hiding in the royal palace at Denerim had been found, four Tevinter cultists posing as kitchen staff, and their plot to assassinate the Queen thwarted. Bron had hoped to bring them to justice peaceably – after all, they may have had invaluable information about the Venatori’s plans that could have proven useful to the Inquisition – but instead a pitched battle had broken out between Bron and the mages and she’d been forced to end their lives. 

The Queen had been inordinately grateful of course, heaping Bron with praise and presenting her with the Fereldan Medallion of Service for having saved her life. The irony is not lost on Bron – that she’d saved the life of the woman who had tried to end the life of the man Bron loves. But then Bron has always been the pragmatic sort and she knows how useful it is to have an incredibly powerful woman indebted to her.

Alistair is under the protection of the Inquisition now, and as long as Queen Anora is in the Inquisition’s debt, he’s safe.

Still – Bron’s news can wait until morning. It’s late, and Leliana may already be in bed (although Bron knows that’s unlikely; Leliana has always been a night-owl). Bron may be a dedicated Inquisition agent but she just hasn’t got the energy to talk about insane blood-mage cultists right now. She’s too bloody exhausted.

All she wants is sleep. Sleep and… well, some _company_ might be nice as well.

* * *

Alistair is _tired_.

He’s been training with the Wardens all day and his whole body now heaves with the consequences. It was supposed to be easy – just work through a few simple exercises, practice a few moves – but then Rodney had said something snarky with that smart-mouth of his and then Alistair had got cocky and, _well_ , their sparring had got a little out of hand. At least he’d won, finally knocking his opponent into the sandy ground of the training yard with an indecorous whoop that was probably somewhat beneath him.

His muscles may be aching but at least his pride is satisfied.

“Next time,” Rodney insists, sitting at the barstool next to Alistair’s, “next time I’ll win.”

Alistair snorts good-naturedly. “Sure you will.”

“It was just that last move,” he says, “that thing you did with your shield.”

There’s a ripple of laughter from the other wardens crowding around the bar. “It wasn’t the last move, Rodney,” says the warden sitting at Alistair’s other side, her face crinkled with amusement. “You were doomed the second you stepped into the training yard. You’re too frantic, you use too much energy – all Alistair had to do was fend you off until you tired yourself out. It’s all about stamina!”

“Stamina?!” shouts another warden from over the woman’s shoulder. “Fuck stamina. It’s all about strength! Alistair is stronger than Rodney – so Rodney lost.”

Some of the wardens nod their heads emphatically while others sneer with disagreement. 

Alistair just laughs. “While I appreciate the compliments about my extraordinary strength and general manly prowess – I’m going to have to disagree. It’s not always about strength. Trust me – I have seen people with far less physical strength than I do some fucking extraordinary things. Some people use… _finesse_ , rather than strength.”

“Is that how you beat me then?” asks Rodney sceptically, “through finesse?”

“No!” Alistair cries with a hearty chuckle, “I beat you because you’re an idiot and you left your left flank open. It was just for a moment but it was enough.”

Rodney gives a disappointed _oh_ which is drowned out by the hearty laughter of his warden brethren. He looks disappointed, _embarrassed_ even that he’d been bested after making such a rookie mistake. Alistair feels a twinge of guilt. Rodney’s only young, and he’s remarkably skilled for his age, not to mention impressively dedicated to an Order that has done little to warrant such devotion (being tricked by Venatori and siding with an ancient abomination is hardly a ringing endorsement for the Wardens); Alistair hopes that this little disappointment won’t dampen the man’s enthusiasm.

“Come now,” Alistair says, knocking Rodney’s shoulder with his own, “just drink and be merry. You can start plotting my demise tomorrow.”

Rodney smiles, then takes a long swig of his beer, his smile broadening when he triumphantly thunks the empty tankard on the pocked surface of the bar. Alistair follows in kind, knocking back the rest of his drink before smacking it against the bar with a theatrical flourish. 

“Another?” asks the Warden sitting next to him.

It’s a tempting offer; the Herald’s Rest has an impressive selection of beers at its disposal and Alistair can’t see the harm in pushing the buzz at the back of his head from ‘tingly’ to ‘pleasantly swirly’. But then he feels the angry smarting in his shoulders, and the unpleasant stiffness in his knees, and he finds himself reluctantly shaking his head instead. “Not tonight,” he sighs with a wearied shrug.

There’s a resounding chorus of boos.

“Alright – yes – I’m weak and feeble, blah blah blah.” He jumps up from his stool with a sound that is partially a sigh but mostly a groan. Rodney really _did_ do a number on him. “But I’m going to need my beauty sleep if I’m going to beat you all into submission tomorrow.”

There are more snickers and more boos but Alistair is too tired to care. As much as he loves this – loves the laughter, the banter, the gentle teasing – right now he loves the prospect of a warm bed and good night’s sleep more.

And besides, it’s not like they won’t all be back at the Herald’s Rest tomorrow; it has become almost a nightly ritual. The Wardens’ presence in Skyhold isn’t some fleeting, momentary thing; the Wardens are the Inquisition’s newest recruits and they have pledged to serve the Inquisition as long as the Inquisitor will have them. They are dedicated to the cause, keen to support the Inquisition right to the bitter end, desperate to retrieve some of the honour they lost when they sided with Corypheus (even if unwittingly). They will stay with the Inquisition as long as Eleri permits it; and they’ll drink at the Herald’s Rest as long as they serve the Inquisition.

It’s a pretty remarkable feeling, Alistair thinks, to know that he has a home, somewhere permanent he can stay (well, unless the Inquisition is disbanded – but he hasn’t really thought that far ahead). Throughout his exile, Alistair had never stayed anywhere for long, always travelling in search of new work or trying to run away from his past and anyone who might seek him out. But now – now things are different – now he has the sturdy, towering fortress of Skyhold to call home. He has friends; in time he may even begin to consider the Wardens his family again.

He’d been surprised when Eleri had asked him to lead the Wardens, to train them and command them in service of the Inquisition, but then he _is_ the only Warden now with the Inquisition who hadn’t sided with the Venatori – which makes him uniquely trustworthy in the eyes of the Inquisitor and her advisors. It wasn’t a position he’d ever thought he’d achieve, not something he’d ever particularly wanted, and he’s surprised at how much he’s enjoying it. It’s _nice_ working with the Wardens again, training alongside them, carrying out missions when required, feeling like he’s once again part of something bigger than himself, part of something worthwhile. And he’s _good_ at what he does; people like him, they listen to him.

There’s a smile on his face as he steps out of the Herald’s Rest into the crisp, evening air. And he takes the time to pause and greet everyone he passes as he makes his way across the courtyard and into Skyhold’s main Keep, exchanging pleasantries with the guards unfortunate enough to be posted on the night-shift or those same few Mages who never seem to sleep. He knows he must look like some gormless fool, grinning to himself as he ambles through Skyhold with a spritely spring in his step, but he’s too content to really care. Today has been a _good day_ ; and not even the angry protestations in his limbs can put a dampener on that.

There’s only one thing that could make this day better.

_Bron_.

She’s been gone for so long – _too bloody long_ – carrying out some important mission in Denerim that he’s not allowed to know about. He doesn’t really understand the secrecy. It’s not like he has anyone to tell; everyone he knows is in the Inquisition. And the not knowing just means that his imagination can run away from him – concocting a variety of troubling scenarios each more dangerous and deadly than the last.

He really hopes she’s all right.

He really hopes she comes home soon.

The floorboards creak in protest as he walks down the corridor toward his room and he finds himself sympathizing with their plight. Every joint in his body is creaking, his skin a painful patchwork of bruises from every one of Rodney’s blows he’d failed to block (and there are more of those than Alistair cares to admit). At least he’ll fall asleep quickly, too exhausted to lie awake and worry about Bron.

Blackness greets him when he enters the room and Alistair’s not sure whether it’s worth trying to light a candle and change from his leathers into a night-shirt or whether he should just collapse into the comforting embrace of his bed and call it a night. Deciding that he’ll probably get a better night’s sleep without the pulling and pinching of his leathers, he’s just about to start groping his way to the dresser when he abruptly stills, struck with a sudden yet unmistakable feeling of _wrongness_.

Alistair is not alone.

He moves his hand to the small dagger hanging from his belt, his well-honed instincts immediately putting him on his guard – though the more logical part of his mind finds it hard to believe that he really is in danger. This is Skyhold, a well-fortified stronghold, patrolled by Commander Cullen’s well-trained and dedicated soldiers – surely no intruder could have reached this far into the fortress.

But then he hears the soft whispering sound of ruffling fabric and then an amused chuckle from the direction of his bed. “Really? You’re going to greet me with a dagger? After I’ve been gone all this time!”

There’s a wave of relief as the tension drains from his limbs, followed by a sudden surging of happiness – it’s Bron! She’s fucking _home_!

He immediately hurries forward, clambering onto the bed, pawing blindly as his eyes struggle to adjust to the darkness.

“What are you doing?” Bron squeals. “You’re still wearing your boots!”

It’s an odd thing to object to, Alistair thinks as he sprawls across the bed, hands skimming across the sheets in search of Bron’s warmth. He can’t really see her, can only just make out a dull blur with the measly sliver of grey light that filters through his window, and it’s frustrating having to rely on his other senses to find his quarry. But then his hand curls around a slender shoulder and he feels a thrum of victory at the feel of warm, soft skin – it’s her! She really is here!

“Who cares about boots?” he asks as he pulls her closer, trapped in a tangle of limbs and sheets.

There’s a sudden cry of pain and Alistair immediately stills. “Ow, ow, my hair!” Bron cries, and Alistair can’t see what’s happening but he’s pretty sure he’s managed to tangle his hand in her dark locks while attempting to pull her closer. He’d wanted a passionate embrace; he’d wanted to crush her against his chest and kiss her senseless. And he hadn’t wanted to wait, too excited to hear Bron’s purring voice to care about anything else. Perhaps he’d got a little carried away; it would probably be better if he could kiss her without causing bodily harm. 

“I should probably… light a candle?” he finally concedes.

She hums in agreement as she disentangles herself then wriggles away from him in what is probably an attempt to avoid further injury. Alistair reluctantly climbs out of bed, groping vainly at the furniture in search of a candle. He finds one on top of his dresser and after a few moments of fumbling there’s a pop of light and the candle bathes the room in a meek, orange glow.

When he turns, he can finally see Bron, her skin shining richly in the meager light of the candle, her face framed by the black curtain of hair hanging loose around her shoulders and down her back. She’s half obscured by his blanket but he can see that she’s wearing one of his shirts. It’s far too big for her of course and the gaping neckline falls over one shoulder, revealing an impressive swathe of skin across her chest. She’s smiling, no _smirking_ , her smile crooked and more than a little smug. She can see the way his gaze wanders, the way his jaw falls slack and his eyes wide as he looks at her.

“Maker’s breath,” he breathes, “you’re beautiful.” 

The smug smile falters then, shrinking into something shy and uncertain, a gentle blush rushing to her cheeks. She’s always that way when Alistair says something sentimental, unused to being the recipient of such honest, bold emotions.

But then she gives her head a shake and fixes him with a smoldering glare, eyes narrowed and lips curled. “Are you just going to stare all night or are you going to _join me_?”

Alistair knows better than to keep a beautiful woman waiting and he quickly strips down to his smallclothes before clambering into bed and slipping under the blanket. Bron watches him the whole time, hungry eyes admiring him openly, and he throws her a boyish grin when he sees her staring. At least he’s not the only one who’s been caught ogling this evening.

He shimmies under the sheets until their knees knock then lifts one hand to cup her cheek while the other presses whispering caresses against her waist. His eyes fall closed as he leans forward, capturing her lips in a gentle kiss – he doesn’t want any distractions, doesn’t want anything to pull his full attention away from the _feel_ of her, the _taste_ of her on his lips.

It’s a softer kiss than he’d expected, gentle and lazy. He’d thought the kiss would be all tongue and teeth, a desperate clash of passion after so many weeks of missing her. But it’s not the right moment for that kind of desperate, feverish kiss. This moment is small and tender, slow and teasing, and he doesn’t want to ruin it by rushing anything.

Bron hums in contentment when he breaks the kiss, and he can feel the sound’s vibration as she presses her forehead against his. 

“How was Denerim?” he asks into the small space between them. Because as much as he wants to shower her with kisses, or explore each dip and curve of her body with hands that have long missed her absence, he also _just wants to talk_. He’s missed her voice, her laugh. He’s missed her biting sarcasm and her sharp wit. He’s missed just… hearing about her day.

“Oh, wonderful,” she drawls, “Denerim is delightful this time of year.”

“Really?”

“No – it pissed it down with rain the whole time.”

They laugh – hearty chuckles that fill the air, banishing the night’s coolness with warm amusement, the bed creaking as their bodies tremble with mirth.

“So what were you doing?” he asks, voice lilting with obvious curiosity. “Or would you have to kill me if you told me?”

She lets out an amused puff of air. He feels it brush against his nose. “I was looking for Venatori spies in the Royal Palace”

One brow curls sharply, his interest piqued. “Really? Did you find them?”

“Of course I did!” she cried indignantly, swatting his shoulder playfully with the back of her hand. “I saved the Queen’s life as well.”

“Did you now? That was awfully nice of you.”

“She was _very_ grateful – she gave me a shiny medal and everything.”

“A medal? Now that _is_ impressive.”

“Hmm… is that _jealousy_ in your tone?” she teases, eyebrows waggling in jest.

He scoffs. “I’m not sure I’d want a medal from the woman who wanted to kill me.”

“Wanted to… but _didn’t_ ,” she says, and she furrows her brows as she feels the tenor of the conversation shift. They’d started out playful, their conversation snarky and irreverent, but Alistair’s tone has turned dark, his features turning stony as he thinks of Anora.

“She could still change her mind,” he says quietly, _cautiously_ , as if worrying that the admission could somehow summon her appearance. “She could come charging in here with her soldiers and drag me away to Fort Drakon.”

“I’d like to see her try,” Bron snaps. “If she lays one hand on you I’ll flay her alive and wear her skin as an evening gown.”

He laughs – always enjoying Bron’s penchant for peculiarly creative threats. But while it’s clear from the crooked tilt of her smile that she’s joking, there’s also an icy fierceness to her eyes, an almost sinister sharpness that suggests it’s not _entirely_ a joke.

And her severity is oddly comforting. Because _he knows_ there’s a kernel of truth in her words, despite her amusingly hyperbolic language; Bron really would defend Alistair to the bitter end, even stand against the Queen of all Fereldan to keep him safe, even at the cost of her own life. It’s a humbling thought – but also a deeply touching one (if also a little morbid).

“Anyway, she owes us one now,” Bron continues. “She can’t touch you when you’re with the Inquisition.”

“So I get to stay then?”

“Did you want to leave?” she asks, and though her voice is casual, he can see a flash of panic in her eyes even in the meager glint of the room’s solitary candle.

“No, no – not at all!” he cries, only now realising how his question could have been misconstrued. “I just… don’t quite believe it. I keep thinking things are too good to be true. That something will happen and I’ll have to leave... carry on drifting from place to place again.” He pauses, lets a grin spread across his face. “But this is it, right? I really am home.”

“ _We’re_ home,” she corrects, wriggling forward to bring her body flush against his, her hands rising to hook behind his neck and pull his head down toward her.

The kisses are a little sloppier now – still slow and teasing only now there’s a new intensity, a frisson of excitement at the realisation that they are both _finally_ home; safe and happy and _together_. He can feel Bron’s smile against his lips, feel the tremor of soft sighs and gentle moans as he nips with his teeth and soothes with his tongue.

His hand ghosts along her spine, brushing his fingers up and down her back in gentle caresses. Then he sweeps his hand around her waist and up her stomach, enjoying the feel of soft skin stretched over taut muscle.

But then something feels weird, rough and alien, and his hand suddenly stills.

“What’s this?” he asks as his fingertips skim over a strange patch of oddly pebbled skin.

_Hmmm?_ she hums quietly in confusion.

“Your skin…” he says by way of an explanation, too distracted by the peculiar feeling of furrowed skin to come up with a proper question.

“Oh – it’s just a burn,” she says with a slight crinkle to her nose, as if the whole thing is just a dreadful inconvenience. “A Venatori fireball got a bit too close.”

His whole body stiffens, the image of roiling flames and the remembered smell of singing skin suddenly overwhelming his senses. And he knows it’s not a big deal – Bron goes on dangerous missions all the time (it’s the inevitable consequence of being so thoroughly skilled at what she does). But at the same time – _it feels like a fucking big deal_. He doesn’t like the idea of Venatori blood mages throwing fireballs at his Bron.

He opens his mouth to vocalise that disapproval but stops when he realises that there’s not _really_ much point. He knows there’s nothing he can say. If he told her to stay where it’s safe, if he begged her not to go on risky missions, she would just dismiss him as an overprotective fool (and he would never say such a thing anyway; Alistair knows how dedicated Bron is to her work).

So instead he shuts his mouth and pulls her closer, spreading his palm across the burn like a Mage summoning healing powers to his fingertips.

“It’s all right, Alistair,” she says, voice cooing softly. “I’m safe.” 

“I know,” he says.

He holds her closer anyway.

He knows he should focus on the here and now, focus on Bron’s body curled against his, focus on the soft rise and fall of her chest with every gentle breath she takes. But instead he can’t help but think about how desperately he doesn’t want to lose her.

_And he could have so easily lost her_!

If she’d died in Denerim, how long would it have taken for him to find out? For how many days would he have lived out his mundane life, training the Wardens or laughing with his friends, without knowing that Bron was already dead? They are questions for which he never wants to know the answer. He suddenly feels his stomach tighten.

His arms are wrapped around her, holding her with such ferocity that he’s sure it can’t be comfortable. But Bron makes no complaint, merely nuzzles her forehead against the crook of his neck, her head tucked neatly beneath his chin.

“I love you,” he murmurs against her crown,

“I know,” she says, somehow managing to push herself even closer against his chest; their bodies so closely entwined, he can scarcely tell which limb is hers and which is his.

There’s a brief pause, a momentary silence, and Alistair is so focused on the sound of Bron’s breathing, on the comforting thump of her heartbeat thrumming against this chest, that he almost doesn’t hear it when she speaks again, her words muffled against his chest as she murmurs, “I love you too.” 

And – _oh_. 

It’s such a simple moment. There’s no fanfare, no clash of fireworks or round of cheers. Just Bron nestled in his arms and those simple words that he’s been waiting to hear for so many months now. And he knows it’s stupid – because he _knows_ , in his heart, that of course Bron loves him – but it’s nice to hear her say it anyway.

The panic and the concern that had knotted in the pit of his stomach starts to slowly unravel, his fears soothed by the comforting warmth of Bron’s body in his arms and the sound of her timid declaration still ringing in his ears.

_She loves him_.

He is home, safe and sound in his bed, with the woman he loves in his arms – a woman who loves him in return – and though his limbs are heavy and sore, it’s the kind of _pleasant_ heaviness that comes from a day of useful activity, a day of training and sparring with his Wardens, his _friends_. And, in this moment, he doesn’t think there is anything in his life that he would want to change.

Yes – today has been a good day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it! Hope you all enjoyed it!
> 
> Thank you so, so much for all the comments you've left! I read and treasure every single one of them - saving them so I can re-read them whenever I'm feeling low. 
> 
> I can't imagine this is the last thing I'll write for Bron and Alistair but it might take a while to get back to them. My head is already buzzing with ideas for other characters and fandoms.

**Author's Note:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


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